


Perfect

by Quills_and_Inkpots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange, In Character, Post-Canon, Post-Divorce, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quills_and_Inkpots/pseuds/Quills_and_Inkpots
Summary: She is a decorated war hero, married to her best friend, has two great kids heading off to Hogwarts this year, and a blossoming career as Minister for Magic-but nothing is as it appears in Hermione Granger's "perfect" life.  Can Hermione find happiness in new places, or will she destroy her whole world trying?





	1. The Parting of the Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrumPuffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrumPuffer/gifts).



> This story was written as part of a gift fic exchange for KrumPuffer in honor of her OTP Hermione/Krum! I hope I've done them justice!

_Mrs. Granger-Weasley,_

_With all terms and settlements heretofore agreed upon, the official decree has been drawn up and is ready for finalization. Please meet me at my office on Melton Street, this Friday, September 20th, 2019, for review and completion of all required documentation._

_Cordially,_  
_Eugenia B. Lawson, Esq._

 

Hermione had loved Ronald since she was eleven years old. First as a friend, a crush, a first love, and then, up until this point, as her husband. Now, the day after her fortieth birthday, as she sat looking down at the parchment in front of her, she felt only sadness and emptiness. Twenty-nine years of friendship and love, and with the scratch of a quill she would end it all.

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley?” The solicitor asked, not unkindly, “are you ready to do this today or would you like to come back?”

“Yes. I mean no, I don’t want to come back, I’m ready to sign.”

The solicitor gave her a small, sympathetic smile that didn’t show her teeth, and slid a quill and inkpot toward Hermione. “As discussed, by signing these documents you agree that all the information stated within is correct and indicates your true will. Upon your signature, and that of the opposed party, Mr. Ronald Weasley, your legal union in marriage will be officially terminated. Terms of the severance have been laid out in scrolls four through seven, and cannot be amended or contested following official termination of the legal union. The ink used in signing is a legally binding and everlasting ink, it cannot be removed, erased, or magically altered in any way once it has been applied. If you agree and abide, please initial at the indicated locations on scrolls one through ten, then sign at the bottom of scrolls eleven and twelve.” She stated this all quickly and clearly, in a very well-practiced but emotionless manner.

Hermione nodded wordlessly and set about initialing where indicated, pausing only when she reached the final two scrolls, “uh sorry, should I be signing with my new name- that is to say my new old name- my maiden name?”

“Until scroll twelve is signed and the paperwork is finalized your married name remains your legal name, and therefore all signatures and initials should be made using your married name. Once these documents are signed by all parties and filed you may return to the use of your maiden name.”

“Right,” Hermione felt stupid, and suddenly stricken at the knowledge that this may be the last time she would sign Ron’s name as part of her own. Something about that thought, more so than anything they had been through during this process up until now, made it seem real in an almost unbearable way.

She scrawled her signature on scroll eleven, then twelve, relishing with some masochistic nostalgia the feeling of the familiar letters flowing from her fingers for what could be the last time. At the last swirl of the quill, the ink shone glassy black for just a moment, then dried instantly, as if it had been absorbed into the parchment all at once.

There was a moment of silence before Hermione looked up from the parchment and spoke again, “so… is that everything?”

“That is everything, for you. Mr. Weasley is set to visit the office on Monday to complete his bit. On Tuesday the completed documentation will be filed for official recognition, and you’ll be notified by owl.”

“Right. Well, thank you again,” Hermione rose from her seat, straightened her robes and turned to leave.

“Ms. Granger,” the solicitor called, and Hermione turned back, thrown by the abruptness of the change in names.

“Yes?”

“The quill,” the solicitor inclined her head in Hermione’s direction, indicating the quill that was still unintentionally clenched in her fist.

“Oh! Apologies. Of course,” she felt embarrassed as she hastened to return it to its holder on the polished, antique desk.

The solicitor offered another small smile to her, her tone soft, “may I offer you some unsolicited advice Ms. Granger?”

“If you must.”

“I see many of these cases. Far too many, actually. Not very many that are handled as amicably as this one has been. I imagine, from the small glimpse that I’ve seen of your relationship, that great love and great friendship must have been shared between you?”

Hermione swallowed hard, and hoped tears would not betray her, “yes,” was all she could manage.

“Then my advice, unwanted or not, would be to hold onto what is left of it. I do not mean to attempt in any way to continue a romantic relationship, as the solicitor who just finalized your portion of the divorce proceedings that would be nothing short of cruel. But there are many ways to love- salvage what you can of the friendship. Not just for the children, though I hear it helps with that. Divorce is like a death; I should know, I often feel like the grim reaper facilitating so many of them. Many people think the actual divorce proceedings are the most painful part, and I guess for some that’s the case, depending on how long and slow a death it was. If I may say so, in your case the legal portion was relatively quick and painless- compared to what I’ve seen at least. Grieving after is natural, and with such a dignified death to the marriage, I imagine for you the next part may be the hardest. Remember to allow yourself to mourn, and don't forget to take care of yourself.”

It was an insightful and well-intended aside, if somewhat impertinent, Hermione felt. “Well, you just saved me galleons at the mind healers,” Hermione joked, not ungraciously.

The solicitor laughed, “I don’t claim to be an expert in anything but marital law, and I didn’t mean to offend, Minister. I don’t usually give personal advice, but I don’t usually have a case like this either.”

Hermione nodded, “no, I imagine not. Well, I appreciate your thoughts and advice, and I’ll take them into consideration. Thank you.” The words flowed out of her easily; the practiced, tactful, politician she had become stepping in to take over in her heightened emotional state.

The solicitor seemed to understand she was being dismissed, and thanked Hermione as she pushed her way out of the door, bound down the long corridor, and back out into the autumn drizzle.


	2. The Writing on the Wall

_Minister for Magic in Shock Divorce_

_The Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger-Weasley, shocked the wizarding world yesterday with the announcement of her divorce from Ronald Weasley, formerly of the Auror Department and current co-manager of the joke shop Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes._

_The official statement released by the ministry reads: “After many years of marriage, the Minister for Magic and her former husband have legally terminated their union. The Minister and her family ask for privacy during this sensitive time.”_

_It is the first divorce of a sitting Minister in over a century. The last was Faris “Spout-Hole” Spavin in 1893, when his twenty-five year old wife, married to him at that point for only five years, infamously divorced him on grounds of being “tired of waiting for the old codger to die.” He was one hundred and thirty-seven at that time and it was his third marriage, being predeceased by his first and second wife._

_Conversely, our current Minister had been married for nearly twenty years. She and her now ex-husband share two children, Rose and Hugo Granger-Weasley, both at Hogwarts in their third and first years, respectively. The minister and her ex-husband met at school where they were both friends with Harry Potter, conqueror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_Public records indicate the Minister has dropped her ex-husband’s last name and returned to the sole use of her maiden name. When contacted by the Daily Prophet, the Minister’s office declined to comment further on the divorce or the name change._

_These unusual events are bound to draw speculation over the Minister’s affairs. It is unknown whether the Minister will be taking a leave of absence from office or how it will otherwise affect her ability to lead our country._

 

“Merlin,” Ginny said, finishing the article and setting the Daily Prophet down on the Potters’ kitchen table. A harassed and harried Hermione moved through a crowd of reporters in the picture underneath the front page headline.

“I know,” Hermione groaned from the seat next to her, face in her hands.

“I didn’t think it was that bad actually,” Harry commented from the stove as he used his wand to scramble the eggs.

“Well, no, by your standards it’s perfectly lovely,” Hermione sighed.

“You’re only sticking up for it because they call you a ‘conqueror’ in it,” Ginny teased.

Harry ignored his wife’s jab, “Hermione you’ve had loads worse written about you, in office and out.”

“Yes, Harry, but this is so much more, well, personal. I’m especially insulted by the implication that it would affect my job or that I would take a leave of absence.”

“Well maybe you should,” Ginny suggested.

“No,” Hermione insisted, “that would only give fuel to the fire.”

“I’m just saying, you look like you could use some rest,” Ginny shrugged.

“Gee, thanks,” Hermione responded, too aware of how her lack of sleep must make her appear to others.

Harry surveyed Hermione over the sizzling bacon, “you’re due a holiday, or at least some personal time. There’s not that much on at the Ministry right now.”

“Don’t gang up on me. I can’t take time off right now, it’ll make me- and by extension my leadership- seem weak and unstable. I promise I’ll take time off when it’s blown over.”

“Hmm, just like you promised to come with us to Minorca?” Ginny didn’t lift her eyes from the broomstick review she was now scanning on the paper in front of her.

“Yes, yes, that was two years ago, I get it okay, I’m a killjoy. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were all trying to banish me.”

“Don’t get testy with me, I’m just concerned for your well-being.”

“You and everyone else. Which apparently includes my solicitor,” Hermione scowled at the memory.

“Your solicitor?” Harry asked.

“Yes, she told me to ‘mourn the death of my marriage, take care of myself,’ et cetera.”

“Sounds more like a mind healer,” Harry answered.

“That’s what I said!” Hermione enthused, feeling vindicated.

“Well, everyone’s going to have an opinion about the Minister for Magic,” Ginny answered matter-of-factly, turning a page.

Harry gave Hermione an empathetic glance, before addressing Ginny, “my lovely wife, though I acknowledge your superior knowledge of and experience in many things, I’m afraid you can’t speak as much on the affliction of fame.”

She looked up from the paper and fixed him with a glare, “my darling husband,” she mocked, “I know you are the Chosen One, and your swollen head makes you forgetful, but did you forget your wife was a professional quidditch player and is the sports editor of this worthless rag?” She indicated the Prophet in her hands.

“Not at all, just that… that particular brand of fame isn’t quite the same, as say, being Undesirable Number One, or Minister for Magic.”

She considered him, “fine, point taken. Also, you’ve burnt the eggs.”

“Bullocks!” He exclaimed, turning to the smoking pan.

Ginny smirked, and returned to the broomstick review as Hermione hid her grin by sipping her pumpkin juice.

***

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked in exasperation for what must be the hundredth time.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Ginny responded, also for the hundredth time.

They were winding their way through Knockturn Alley, passing open-air stalls smelling of rotten meat, shop windows displaying medieval looking weapons, dark spell books, and even, to Hermione’s discomfort and alarm, a cage containing a skeleton of something that looked distinctly human.

“Please tell me we are almost there,” Hermione hissed at Ginny as they passed an old man in tattered robes who stared at them with an intensity bordering on vehemence.

“Yes, very soon.” They rounded a corner and Ginny stopped in front of small shop door. The display window was dirty and draped in blood-red velvet curtains, exposing a dusty crystal ball and a faded pack of playing cards.

“Ginny, what are we doing here?” Hermione rounded on her, behind Ginny she spotted chipped golden lettering on the door that read: _Madam Bodemont, Seer of the Past, Present, and Future. Walk-ins Welcome_. “You told me we would be doing something fun,” there was accusation and warning in her tone.

“Now, hear me out. I’m paying, and it is just for fun. She’s supposed to be really good,” Ginny looked at her entreatingly, her cheerfulness not dampened by the dreary surroundings.

Even if she hadn't been standing in the sketchiest part of Wizarding London, Hermione did not want to be there. She had never put much, if any, stock in Divination. She knew the future was a many-factored, ever-changing thing, not a fixed outcome that could be read like a book. Logically, she understood that history indicated there were confirmed cases of a few true Seers. However she also understood that their “abilities” were really a predilection for predicting potential outcomes that sometimes happened to come true. In her experience and opinion, the vast majority of people who claimed to be Seers were in fact frauds.

To say that she was a sceptic was putting it lightly. Hermione couldn’t believe that Ginny had dragged her here to apparently visit this Madam Bodemont, or that she had allowed it.

“Just 10 minutes, then you can make me buy you tea,” Ginny offered.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, “ten minutes only, and you’re buying me lunch.”

Ginny beamed, “deal!” She pulled the door open, and gestured for Hermione to enter first.

Hermione stepped reluctantly into the darkened space. It smelled of sitting dust, old wood, and burnt sage. They were in a small sitting room with worn velvet armchairs around an ancient table. Open shelving throughout the room showcased items of a mystical nature; several different sets of playing and tarot cards, stacks of chipped teacups, crystals of various sizes and colors, and books with titles such as _Seeing Beyond the Veil: a Guide to Conversing with the Deceased._  Madam Bodemont was nowhere in sight, and Hermione felt like she had done in the Divination tower at Hogwarts, waiting for Trelawney to appear and spew more rubbish and call it education.

“Hullo?” Ginny called looking hopefully toward a backroom partitioned off by a heavy curtain.

In response, a cough emanated from that general area and Ginny and Hermione exchanged glances. They could hear her light but shuffling footsteps before they saw her. “Are you here for a reading?” Came a gravelly voice just before she emerged from behind the dark curtain, a small and frail figure, hunched over by age. The withered witch’s hair was a grizzled gray, and as she came closer into the light, Hermione could see that her eyes were milky white.

“Yes,” was Ginny’s response.

“Eh, you should’ve made an appointment,” the old woman said, disgruntled.

“The door says you take walk-ins,” replied Ginny determinedly.

“If you don’t wish to see us we’ll be on our way,” Hermione said brightly.

The old woman lifted a hand dismissively, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do the reading, just interrupted my afternoon nap.”

Hermione shot a sideways glance at Ginny. Who had she brought her to see?

“So you’ll see us?” Ginny answered hopefully.

“Aye, have a seat,” the old woman instructed them vaguely in the direction of the chairs around the table and felt for a chair subtly before pulling it out and planting herself in it. Hermione, who had been expecting the old woman to pluck some of the items off the surrounding shelves was surprised to see the witch sitting. Hermione and Ginny both sat at the table and waited to be instructed or addressed.

“Now, who is the Questioner today?”

“She is,” Ginny answered.

The old witch nodded and held out her hands in Hermione’s direction. Hermione looked uncertainly at Ginny who shrugged back.

“Let’s not wait all day m’dear,” the old woman said.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you are expecting me to do right now, do we need to pay?” Hermione confessed.

“We do the paying after. But if you want the reading you need to give me your hands.”

“Hands?” Hermione was becoming more frustrated with this cryptic encounter by the second.

“What do you want me to read, a storybook? If you want a palm reading I’ll need your hands.”

“Right,” Hermione placed both of her hands into the surprisingly cold, waiting fingers of the old woman.

The witch’s hands were gaunt and wrinkled, showing her veins and age, but they were soft and gentle as she turned Hermione’s hands over in her own. She examined the backs of Hermione’s hands first with her fingertips, then turned them gently, running a fingertip over the creases at her wrist, spreading Hermione’s fingers and flexing her hand, before running her fingers over the contours of Hermione’s palm. She took particular care to feel here for lines and wrinkles.

“What have you come to ask m’dear?”

Hermione looked to Ginny. She hadn’t thought she needed any questions, her experience with palmistry was Trelawney taking one look at her hand and making outlandish claims. She had never expected that she would guide the session at all.

“We’re wanting to know about her love life,” Ginny answered for her, tone cheerful.

The old woman nodded, “yes, I can see why. You’ve recently had a heartbreak, have you not?”

Hermione smiled. She understood now. This woman had made a career out of cold-reading. Hermione had no wish to offend the woman, silly as this may be, and decided to play along respectfully. “Yes, a divorce.”

“A long marriage it was,” Madam Bodemont asserted, it wasn’t a question.

“Nearly 20 years,” Hermione confirmed.

“Indeed, a young and deep love. Three more loves branching off. Three children in your marriage?”

“No,” Hermione answered, feeling amused. “Two children.”

The old woman shook her head, running her finger again over the spot below Hermione’s smallest finger. “No, there’s definitely another one here, comes after the other two. A short line though. A death maybe? In infancy?”

Hermione felt as if ice had been dropped down her spine, “a miscarriage,” she said quietly, without thinking.

Ginny looked at her, alarmed. “What?”

“There was a miscarriage, after Hugo.”

“You never told us?” Ginny’s face reflected the shock in her tone.

“Was this the cause of the pain?” The old woman was rolling her thumb over a deep line in the center of Hermione’s hand, “a sickness of the mind, perhaps?”

“I would imagine so,” Hermione said quietly, not convinced, but unsettled by the woman’s statements. How obvious was Hermione’s pain over this loss that only she and Ron knew about? Obvious enough that this stranger could guess it. She thought of the depression she had entered after the miscarriage. Suddenly, this didn’t feel like a light-hearted good time anymore, and Hermione was reminded why she hated Divination so much. People pretending to know things they didn’t, based on nonsense and superstition. And now she was being made to confess her secrets and speak of things she’d rather not.

“Ah, but then your career deepened. Did you get a promotion after?” She was fixated on another line in the center of the palm.

Ginny looked to Hermione, watching her expression.

Hermione had decided to pursue the Minister position after the loss of the pregnancy. It was the only thing that could pull her out of the darkness, the prospect of doing something meaningful, helping others, making real change. Burying her head in mountains of paperwork and policy documents so that she couldn’t think of what was missing in her life. “Yes,” she said again.

The old woman nodded her head kindly, “so you want to know what’s next for you dear? Well, I can tell you there is another one coming.”

“Another what?” Hermione asked, her mind still on the baby that was never born.

“Another love. Coming very soon, actually. It is a curious thing..." she wondered.

Hermione was sure her surprised tone was part of the act, all for dramatic effect, but she asked anyway, "how so?"

"Well there's quite a bit of criss-crossing in your lines, they converge and rejoin in various places. Seems that this love is connected to another love, an earlier love.”

“My ex-husband?” Hermione asked sceptically.

The old woman shook her head again, “no, before that one. It is a smaller line, one could almost miss it.”

Hermione shook her head in response. “No, there was no love before Ron.”

“No?” The old woman asked, her tone betraying amusement rather than doubt, “no boyfriends before your husband?”

Hermione thought suddenly of Viktor Krum, but dismissed the thought and repeated, “there was no love before Ron.”

The old woman smiled and bowed her head in deference, “I must be mistaken then. However it is certain that the next is coming soon. A very prominent line it is too.”

“What does that mean?” Ginny asked curiously.

“Could mean many things,” the old woman said, "could be a deeper or more intense love, more passionate."

“Interesting," Ginny said, and Hermione could hear the smile in her voice, "does it say anything else? Where they’ll meet, what he looks like?”

The old woman smiled a sparsely-toothed grin, “it doesn’t quite work that way, dear.”

Hermione scoffed, “well of course not.”

The old woman’s smile twisted just a bit, “can’t read something that isn’t written down. In this particular matter the palm tells us timing, intensity, longevity. When my eyes were better, I sometimes could draw out visions of the other details in the ball, but it’s been many years since that aspect of both my sight and my Sight has eluded me.”

“Are palms the only readings you do anymore?” Ginny asked, glancing at the shelves of disused items.

“I still commune with the Other Side when needs must, but now it is mostly chiromancy, as palms are one of the few you can read with your hands instead of your eyes.”

A blind Seer, Hermione could appreciate the irony of such a thing, the fulfillment of the old archetype, but it didn’t make the whole thing any more credible to her. “Do my hands show anything else?” Hermione asked, hoping that she was done and could escape the dark room and Knockturn Alley.

“Temperamental things, of course. You’re very logical, and reasonably willful, you’re quite disciplined I imagine? Others may accuse you of being stubborn?” She was feeling Hermione’s thumbs.

Hermione frowned, “I’d like to think I’m disciplined, and doesn’t everyone get accused of being stubborn by people who disagree with them?”

The old woman smiled again, “generally the stubborn do.” She felt inside Hermione’s palm, then just below Hermione’s first finger. “Shows here you are successful in your career, no doubt due to that will and determination, but you also have a high ability to cause good, to serve others. You work in a service field, yes?”

“I’m a public servant,” Hermione confirmed, wondering if this witch really didn’t know who she was, but then again, she was blind.

The old woman nodded again, satisfied. “Yes, you must be careful with that, being prone to service and sacrifice is noble, but also draining of the Energies. You may have trouble drawing boundaries, but it is essential for your well-being. Be sure to take care of yourself before everyone else.”

Take care of yourself. If one more bloody person told Hermione to take care of herself she was going to scream. She was officially done with this. She eased her hands from the woman’s as politely as she could and responded, “yes, thank you. And thank you for your time, I’m afraid that now we must be going.”

Ginny was surprised by this abrupt ending and looked to Hermione, no doubt reading the barely contained irritation there.

“Don’t want a second reading then?” Madam Bodemont turned towards Ginny.

“Not today, thanks,” Ginny replied.

“We’ll just do the paying then,” the old woman nodded.

Ginny hastened to pull out her coin bag, and Hermione watched with dismay the golden glint of galleons being exchanged.

The old woman seemed satisfied, “you come back any time now dear.”

They bid the old woman goodbye, and pushed back out into Knockturn Alley. Once they were back out on the grimy cobblestones Hermione said, “I wish you hadn’t spent so much money on that.”

“What do you mean? I thought that was brilliant! Money well spent. I know you had to enjoy it even a little, what did you really think?”

Hermione felt irritated, and unsettled, but didn’t want to diminish Ginny’s positivity or seem ungrateful. “I think I’m glad you enjoyed it, that I’m lucky to have such a wonderful friend, and that you owe me lunch,” Hermione reminded.

Ginny laughed, “alright, but let’s wait until we’re out of Knockturn Alley, who knows what slop they serve here.”

“Oi, mind your tongue!” Exclaimed a middle-aged witch nearby, clearly offended. She was in a dirty apron selling something grey and indiscriminate out of a food cart.

“Sorry,” Ginny said quickly and made a face to Hermione as they hurried away.


	3. The Invitation

It had been three weeks since the divorce was finalised, and Hermione was finally settling in to her new routine of avoiding the press and post as much as possible. She was tired of writing responses to well-intended letters from old friends and colleagues, tired of repeating the same byline to all the reporters who wanted additional word on her divorce announcement. She was at the point where she had her staff screening all inquiries and owls. Jason, her Junior Assistant, had already had to vanish three separate howlers, the first of which he missed under a pile of other letters. They didn’t notice it until an older woman’s voice was shrieking throughout the office about the sanctity of marriage and the dissolution of the family in society.

Hermione was beginning to feel like a hermit, avoiding public appearances and flooing directly into her office in the morning and back into her sitting room at night. She was still keeping up her weekly Sunday brunches with the Potters, but otherwise she had started to isolate herself, hoping all the hoopla would die away on it’s own if she just ignored it.

It wasn't until she found a reporter perched in the bushes outside her kitchen window when she opened it to let in yet another owl, that she knew it had gone too far. She asked Harry to station a few of his least essential Aurors around her home, and he complied willingly, sending her two young but competent new members of his team. The female (Hermione could never remember their names) was eager and grateful for the opportunity, the male, self-important and over-confident. If that wasn’t an indicator of the state of things in the world she didn’t know what was.

With that level of defenses, it was nearly impossible for anyone or anything to get through to Hermione without first being questioned or read by someone else.

So when Jason knocked on her office door during her lunch hour on a rainy Thursday she tried to keep the irritation out of her voice when he entered with an owl on his arm.

“I’m sorry Minister,” he said apologetically, “He wouldn’t give me the letter, it looks like it has been sealed with an identifying spell so that no one but the addressee can open it. He’s already bit me and two girls in the OPD.”

“That sounds as if it could be dangerous, did we send it by MLE?”

“I wasn’t sure if that’s what you’d like me to do so I figured I’d ask first.”

The owl though looked somewhat familiar to Hermione once she took a good look at it. It was a distinctive long-eared owl, and she was almost sure that she had dealt with it before. “Let me have a look first,” she instructed, setting down her turkey and cheese sandwich as Jason approached her desk.

The owl leapt off his arm as soon as possible, as if it were irritated at being held up in its business, and approached Hermione from across the desk. The owl extended a long leg in her direction and Hermione removed the scroll of parchment. It stood stiffly waiting to see if it needed to take a return letter. She offered it a nip of her cheese but the owl refused it irritably. She looked at the scroll of parchment and recognized the familiar, angular handwriting immediately.

“Thank you Jason, you did the right thing, it is just from an overly-cautious friend. I’ll see the owl out.”

Jason understood himself to be dismissed and looked pleased that he had not misstepped and delivered a cursed letter into the hands of the Minister. He pulled the door shut quietly behind him.

Once she was alone, Hermione unfurled the roll of parchment and read.

 

_Hermione,_

_I was sad to read that you have been through a divorce. Sad for you and your family, and sad that I did not know. Our last letter was only a few months ago, though I know how quickly these things change. I hope you are doing well, if your divorce has been anything like mine was I know how hard it can be. Let me know how I can help._

_Your friend,_   
_Viktor_

 

She read the letter over several times, processing the content, not so different from other letters she’d received. Why did she feel differently about this one? She thought briefly of the words of the blind Seer, and dismissed that thought instantly. Of course Viktor would write to her, he was her friend after all. The owl ruffled its feathers impatiently, as if to remind her it was still waiting.

“Yes, okay,” she responded to it, pulling a piece of parchment from the edge of her desk and picking up her quill to scribble a response.

 

_Viktor,_

_My dear friend, I’m sorry that I didn’t write to you sooner and that you heard about the divorce from the papers. What with dealing with the divorce, avoiding publicity, and trying to stay on top of things at work, I’m afraid to admit it quite slipped my mind. Can you forgive me?_

_I am doing well, honestly. Well, as well as can be expected I imagine. I remember the articles during your divorce, thankfully no papers here have stooped so low as to fabricate stories to the degree they did then. In my case the divorce itself was quick and easy for the most part, so I reckon I really should be counting myself lucky._

_Please let me know when you’ll be in town again, I’ll buy your forgiveness with tea or firewhiskey, your choice._

_Your friend,_   
_Hermione_

 

She finished the letter, sealed it with a similar charm, and attached it warily to the reproachful owl. With some coaxing she carried him to the outer office and instructed Jason to escort him back to the Owl Posting Department. One of the many downfalls of working underground was that you couldn’t just open the window and let them out. The OPD must’ve just sent him up after failing to separate the letter from him, which he was surely instructed to release only to the addressee.

As she returned to her office she thought of her letter to Viktor, but was sure that when she received a response from him it would contain a promise to make plans to see each other and catch up, as their letters always did. She was just as sure that those plans would fall through, as they always did.

She went back to her turkey sandwich and reluctantly, the stack of memos from Misuse of Muggle Artefacts on some proposed new laws and regulations.

***

She was home the next evening when she heard a peck on her window. Wondering where the Aurors were when she needed them, she pulled it open to find Viktor’s owl perched on the ledge.

“You again, huh?” Hermione said, but she wasn’t upset about it. She welcomed him in, shutting the chilly air out behind him. She opened the reply and was surprised to find it much shorter than she expected.

 

_Hermione,_

_Divorce calls for firewhiskey, and I will buy. Come visit me in Bulgaria, I always find it easier to avoid the press when in another country._

_Viktor_

 

She found herself smiling as she wrote out her response.

 

_Viktor,_

_Yes, I’m sure being seen on holiday with you so soon after my divorce will calm the papers. I can imagine the headlines now- “British Minister for Magic Reigniting Old Flame with Bulgarian Quidditch World Cup Champion!” I do so appreciate the offer though. Let me know when you’ll be in London._

_Hermione_

 

She sent the response off with the owl, and when she went to bed that night she didn’t expect to see the owl again for several more months, which was their usual rhythm of correspondence. She was shocked, then, when she was interrupted again the following morning over her tea and breakfast by the same surly owl.

 

_Hermione,_

_I understand, but you are welcome anytime. I do not know when I will be in London again, but I will be sure to let you know._

_Warmly,_   
_Viktor_

 

This response was more like what she had expected, an open-ended invitation to see one another that always fell to the wayside. She didn’t deem a response necessary and sent the owl back off without one, positive that this time she was seeing the back of it for a while. She finished her toast, feeling validated, but also something else that could have been disappointed.

***

 

The next few weeks passed in a flurry of other political news that meant the news and speculation surrounding Hermione’s divorce was finally growing cold and the flock of letters she received every day was thinning. She was nearly at the point of returning to her old protocol when she received another surprise visit from the irritable long-eared owl. She could almost see the fear in Jason’s eyes when he escorted the owl into her office.

 

_Hermione,_

_You told me to let you know when I am in the area again, I am happy to say I will be nearby very soon. I am coaching a match there in the UK, it is in just a few days on November 1st. You can come to the match and bring a friend- I will get you tickets. And maybe we can visit after? I know it is short notice, but let me know if you can make it._

_Viktor_

 

Hermione could feel her pulse beating as she contemplated these words. Concrete plans to see one another? An evening out? She had been so focused on her work and avoiding the press since the divorce that she hadn’t been out in ages. She hadn’t been to a quidditch match since the last Chudley Cannons match she saw with Ron. Ron. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of him, but she wasn’t sure why. They’d been divorced for over a month now, and even before then they hadn’t really been together for a while, hadn’t had sex in almost a year. It couldn’t be wrong for her to spend time with someone else when they were divorced, despite her habitual sense of loyalty. Plus, she and Viktor were just friends, had only been friends for decades now, no matter how jealous Ron had always been of their friendship. Certainly she could justify a quidditch match and a drink with an old friend.

The owl, apparently displeased at the length of her contemplation, actually hooted at her.

“You are impossible, you know that?” She said to the owl, who continued to survey her with impatience. “Fine.”

 

_Viktor,_

_Of course I’ll see you when you’re in the area, it’ll be lovely to catch up! Send me all the details and I’ll make sure I’m there._

_Hermione_

_P.S._   
_You may want to reply using another owl, I’m not sure this one likes me very much._

 

She watched Jason take the owl from the room, and almost as quickly started to second-guess the wisdom of her decision. Despite the enthusiastic response she had sent under the pressure of the watchful owl, Hermione couldn’t help fretting that maybe she had made the wrong decision in agreeing to see Viktor after his match. She had never particularly enjoyed quidditch, or indeed truly understood it, but more concernedly, she didn’t think there was anyone she could ask to accompany her. Without a companion, the arrangement was started to look more and more like a date.

She racked her brains to think of someone she could convince to come along, and her mind first fell to Harry. Harry, who considered Viktor a friendly acquaintance, if not exactly a friend. Though, knowing Harry as she did, she knew it would make him uncomfortable if she asked, and he would undoubtedly refuse given his loyalty to Ron. Ginny, she mused, would have equal interest, and similar concerns, no matter how supportive she had been to Hermione throughout the separation and divorce. Though, perhaps, she thought with hope, Ginny would be covering the match for the Prophet, that would give her a valid reason to be there. Then she remembered that Ginny was travelling to cover an international match this week, and her hopes were shattered.

What had she gotten herself into?


	4. Talons and Tea Leaves

Hermione’s luck with owls hadn’t much improved by Thursday lunchtime. She had gone to the Owl Post depot in Diagon Alley to post letters to Rose and Hugo, and left nursing a scratch on her left hand. Examining the damage, she thought spitefully of the reasons why she had never chosen to keep one as a pet. In addition to simply preferring cats, she couldn’t stand the mess of them. She had always yelled after Ron to pick up after his owl, tired of unintentionally stepping on owl droppings in the morning and hearing the telltale crunch of small animal bones beneath her feet. Though she supposed now that Ron and his owl had a new place to foul up, she quite missed the convenience of not having to hop off to the owl depot every time she wanted to post a personal letter. Sure, she could post them at work, or have her assistant do it, but she liked to keep her work and personal life separate, as impossible as that was seeming lately. She had even been thinking of stopping in to the Magical Menagerie to pick up an owl after posting her letter, until the depot owl gave her a sharp dig with his talon while she tied her letter, and she decided better of it.

Instead she made a stop in at Gringotts to make a withdrawal, and then found herself in Madam Malkin’s eying an elegant golden dress that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. The price tag read sixty galleons, five sickels.

“Would you like to try it on?” Came Madam Malkin’s voice from behind her.

Hermione reached a hand out and let the slick material slide through her fingertips. “I think not this one, I’m rather looking for something a touch more... informal maybe.”

“What is the occasion, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Quidditch match.”

“Ahh,” said Madam Malkin knowingly, “let me show you our newest stock.” She took Hermione back to an area near the dressing room. Several racks were laden with dresses of every color and design. Hermione felt overwhelmed just looking at them.

“Maybe you could suggest a few?” She offered diplomatically.

Madam Malkin seemed pleased, “I’d be honored Minister! I'll grab your measurements and be just a moment!”

With a flick of her wand Madam Malkin's tape measure hopped to life and began to wrap itself around Hermione's figure. Hermione felt relieved as Madam Malkin disappeared into the back room, leaving Hermione to glance around at the variety of robes around her. Healers’ robes, dressrobes, and everything in-between were hung neatly along the walls. She glanced at the black school-issued robes with nostalgia, particularly at the smallest ones that reminded her of shopping here with Hugo before the term began. In many ways she still wasn't used to the idea of her baby being old enough to go off to Hogwarts. It had been easier with Rose, who was always so grown up, independent, and academically motivated. Hugo had always been particularly close to Hermione, and quite content at his muggle primary school. He was excited to go off to Hogwarts of course, but she had sensed hidden trepidation from him in the weeks leading up to it. When she questioned him about it, he confessed he was worried he wouldn't be as good at magic as he was at primary studies, and definitely not as good as his sister, who excelled in nearly all her studies. She had done her best to reassure him, but hadn't heard much from him since he started at Hogwarts. She hoped the letter she had just sent off would get a more exhaustive answer from him. While Hermione was musing on how her children were holding up, Madam Malkin returned with an array of garments suspended in front of her wand.

“These ought to do. If you come just over here, I’ve picked out some that I think will be particularly flattering on you.” She hung the dresses on a hook just inside the private dressing area and instructed Hermione to come out for adjustments when she had slipped on one she liked.

The first was a lacy red dress that suited her colouring, but was too loud for Hermione, she would have fit in well with the Bulgarian crowd, but if she was spotted she didn’t want any attention drawn to the fact that she was wearing another country’s colours. The second dress was striped emerald green and also complimented her, but like the first not muted or neutral enough for her politically since the match was against Ireland. The third was a deep blue with minuscule gleaming silver stars, which she liked well enough, but something about the cut didn’t feel quite her. She tried on the last, a simple black dress that was versatile and could be dressed up or down, according to the occasion. It was sleeveless, a tasteful v-neck, and had a flowy skirt that fell just above her knee. It was easily her favorite so far. She stepped out to allow Madam Malkin to assess the fit.

“A fine choice! I had a feeling you would gravitate toward that one, it suits you well. You can never go wrong with a little black dress! Let me just make some adjustments,” she was rotating around Hermione in front of the full length mirror, using her wand to make markings for alterations. “That should do,” she said at last, “is that everything for you today, Minister?”

“Yes, I think that will be lovely,” Hermione answered, turning and watching the skirt swish with her movement in the mirror.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to try on the gold dress? I designed it myself!” Madam Malkin said with pride, summoning the discarded dresses on their hangers.

Hermione hadn’t worn a dress that fine in ages, maybe not since her wedding. At that thought, the voice in the back of her head said, why not just try it on? “I think I will,” Hermione said at last, and Madam Malkin smiled in response, lifting her wand to summon the dress and direct it to hang on the hook in the dressing area.

“These are my favorite kind of fittings,” she smiled conspiratorially, “do you mind if I obscure the mirror in the room while you change? I like to see the reaction!”

“Yes, alright then,” Hermione agreed, feeling like a little girl playing dress-up.

Madam Malkin obscured the mirror with a quick spell, and instructed Hermione in the clasps and zippers before stepping out. Once Hermione had managed to get the dress on and mostly done up she opened the door and Madam Malkin clucked appreciatively. She made tiny adjustments with her wand, cinching here and loosening there. At last she stepped aside and turned Hermione toward the full length mirror. It was all she could do to keep from gasping.

The dress was breathtaking, it glittered and shimmered like sunlight dancing on water, and it fit Hermione like it had been made for her. The material hugged her curves from chest to thighs in all the most flattering places and disguised the features she felt less confident about. The bottom of the dress flared just at the knees, accentuating her hips in a lovely way. The overall effect was mesmerizing, and Hermione never wanted to take it off. “You’re an artist,” Hermione whispered, awestruck at this glamorous version of herself in the mirror.

Madam Malkin glowed with pride in response, “you are a lovely model for it. Allow me to include it complimentary with your order.”

“I couldn’t!” Hermione insisted, the simple dress she had chosen for the quidditch match was much cheaper than this one, there was no way she could allow Madam Malkin to just give it to her. However, she had to admit to herself that she did want it, she didn’t even know where or what she would wear it to, but she was mesmerized by it. To own something so beautiful just for the sake of owning it was a luxury she had never allowed herself. It was impractical, and Hermione had always been one for practicality. Yet, at this moment, staring at herself in the mirror, trying her best to ignore the subtle signs of aging in her face and figure, she wanted- no needed to own something just for her- something that made her feel beautiful and glamorous and special.

“It would be my pleasure to see the Minister for Magic in one of my original pieces. And the best advertising I could imagine!”

“I will pay you for your beautiful work, and I will still let anyone who asks know where I purchased it.” Hermione answered, a note of finality and graciousness in her voice.

“I am honored,” Madam Malkin bowed gratefully, “I will finalise the alterations on both of the dresses and have them delivered to your home, if that is agreeable?”

“Absolutely,” Hermione answered, feeling thrilled, guilty, and satisfied all at the same time. As Madam Malkin left to tally the bill, she reluctantly removed the golden masterpiece for her plain black robes.

***

Some time later, while browsing a selection of pickled toad’s livers at a discount supply stall and still thinking wistfully of her golden dress, Hermione heard her name being called from behind.

Turning toward the voice, she saw Ginny, red hair catching in the autumn light. “Ginny! What are you doing here? I thought you were out of town?”

“No, last match was cancelled, just practices this week. Are you busy right now?”

“Not at all,” Hermione glanced over the toad’s livers without regret.

“Fancy a cup? I’m dying for some conversation that isn’t quidditch strategy.”

Hermione smiled, “I’d love one.”

A few minutes later they were settled down at a table inside Rosa Lee’s with two mugs of tea and a small tray of biscuits.

“So…” Ginny asked, wrapping her hands around her steaming mug and eying her with interest, “what’s new this week Minister?”

Hermione cast around for something to talk about other than the only noteworthy thing that had happened. “I’ve been working with the Americans on that trade agreement,” she threw out.

“That’s brilliant. I really don’t know how you do it, I think I’d hex myself blind if I had to stare at legal nonsense all day.”

Hermione shot her a look of amusement, “so how’s your week then?”

Ginny shrugged, “rainy, long quidditch practices. I’m exhausted. Getting up at 5:30 in the morning to watch other people practice quidditch certainly makes me question my commitment to my career,” she bit irritably into a biscuit.

“I don’t know how you do it, I think I’d hex myself blind if I had to fly a broomstick in the rain all day,” Hermione imitated.

Ginny laughed warmly, “touche,” and raised her teacup, “to choosing the right path,” she smiled and drank.

“The right path,” Hermione agreed, raising her cup and taking a hesitant sip. She wondered, not for the first time, if she had any idea what the right path was.

“So what are you doing down this way?” Hermione asked.

“Stopping in the shop to visit the brothers,” she answered, “I need to wring them out for sending Skiving Snackboxes to James. I’ve already had two letters from McGonagall. I mean, the kid could try being a little more subtle, at least try to keep a low profile.”

“What, like his father did?” Hermione quipped.

Ginny laughed, “you know James is the opposite of Harry. Harry didn’t want the attention, whereas James laps it up. Reminds me more of his uncles in that way.”

Ginny didn’t say which uncles, but Hermione knew she meant the twins, and felt the old pang of sadness she always did when she thought of Fred.

“My galleons are on George sending them, Ron’s too smart to get on my bad side.”

“What you mean to say is Ron is afraid of you and George isn’t.”

Ginny grinned, “well, like I said, Ron is too smart.” She sipped her tea again, “how are things between you two?”

“Fine,” Hermione answered automatically, then added, “we flooed last week to talk about Hugo.”

“How is Hugo settling in?”

“Good as far as we can tell, he’s so quiet you know, won’t talk to us. His letters are brief, he loves Hogwarts, hates Potions.”

“That’s so funny, isn’t that Rose’s favorite subject?”

“That and Charms, though to be fair she loves them all.”

“Well, that’s a Ravenclaw for you, takes after her mother.”

“I suppose. I’m interested to see how she feels about Divination,” Hermione smirked.

“That’s right, she’s a third year, she’s started that hasn’t she?”

“Yes, I can only imagine Trelawney has gotten battier with age.”

“It’s hard to imagine it’s possible to be battier than she was,” Ginny said wistfully.

“Agreed.”

“Speaking of Divination, have you given any more thought to what Madam Bodemont said?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione’s stomach clenched uncomfortably.

“New love and all that?"

"Why do you ask?" She stalled.

"It seems like you’re hiding something from me.” Ginny eyed her suspiciously.

“Hiding?” Hermione questioned, stomach tightening further.

Ginny rolled her eyes, “yes, hiding, and don’t try to argue, I’ve known you too long to not see it written across your face like a stinging hex.”

Hermione blew out a breath, she was caught out she knew, but she hadn’t had the chance to prepare for what to say. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m hiding anything, so much as still figuring out what I think about it.”

Ginny’s eyebrows raised in interest, “Well now I’m dying of suspense.”

Hermione sighed and figured it was probably best to just come out with it, “Viktor Krum has invited me to attend his match tomorrow.”

Ginny looked surprised, and something else that Hermione couldn’t place, “well, I’m sorry to say that is much more interesting than trade agreements, you should’ve opened with that.”

Hermione let out a chuckle and hoped she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt, “yes well, I mostly know what I’m doing with trade agreements.”

“So,” Ginny continued, finishing her biscuit and obviously not willing to let the subject drop away, “is this a date?”

“No,” Hermione responded maybe too quickly, “he said I should bring a friend,” she offered as proof, then, without hope added, “any chance you’re interested?”

Ginny brightened and looked tempted, answering, “I’m surprised I’m not covering that one actually. As much as I hate to miss a good match and would love to be a pixie in that bush, I’m not sure my prat of a brother would ever speak to me again if I did,” she looked apologetic.

It was as she suspected, but Hermione still felt disappointed, “I figured.”

“But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, you have to promise to tell me everything. Are you going to see him after?”

“He does want to catch up, I’m sure it’ll be drinks or a bite to eat, something casual.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows and looked at Hermione knowingly, and there was something in her features and expression so reminiscent of Ron that Hermione felt a jolt of guilt.

“What?” She answered, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice.

“I’m just saying, sounds like a date to me.”

“It’s not a date,” Hermione repeated.

Ginny looked sceptical and just shrugged, draining the remains of her teacup in one gulp.

Hermione took a sip of her own tea. It had gone cold.


	5. Quidditch

When Hermione Apparated to the Quidditch pitch the next evening she knew she was early, but she couldn’t wait in her kitchen any longer fretting over whether or not she had appropriately styled her new black dress for the occasion.

Viktor had instructed her to pick up her ticket at will-call and the booth worker recognized her immediately as she approached. 

“Good evening Minister,” he called out jovially, tipping his hat to her, “two tickets for the top box! A splendid view!” 

She exchanged pleasantries with him and wished him good evening before traipsing up the stairs toward her seat. She was already drawing attention, and was becoming more concerned this would be problematic. Certainly being in the top box meant her presence would draw even more attention, pictures would be taken. She decided to detour on her way to the top and stopped a friendly looking Bulgarian couple attempting to find their seats.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, inwardly hoping they wouldn’t recognize her. To her relief they seemed not to. “Could I offer you a trade on your seats?”

The man looked at her like she was mad, “a trade on our seats?”

“An upgrade?” She said hopefully, flashing the golden top box tickets.

The man’s eyes looked at her in incredulity, “you vant vorse seats?” He clearly didn’t believe that it wasn’t some kind of scam. She didn’t blame him.

“I want different seats, and you have different seats. But if you don’t want them I’ll offer them to someone else,” she started to turn away.

“No! No, ve vill trade!”

She smiled and held out the tickets, holding her other hand out in expectation.

He eyed the tickets suspiciously once more, but on closer inspection determined they were authentic and eagerly handed over their tickets.

“Thank you!” The man said, then turned to his wife and began speaking to her rapidly in Bulgarian.

“Thank you,” Hermione responded, glad to have solved her problem so efficiently as she watched the couple jubilantly bounce up the stairs in the direction of the top box. 

She was perfectly happy in these mid-level seats and could not imagine a reason why she would be spotted here in the Bulgarian crowd. The rows slowly filled in around her with avid fans sporting red and black. She was surrounded by conversations in Bulgarian, but she didn’t mind. She kept nervously checking the clock and looking in the direction of the changing rooms for signs of the players.

When at last the teams did come out to thunderous applause, it was nothing but streaks of crimson and green. She couldn’t recognise anyone, and she thought longingly of the omnioculars collecting dust in a box somewhere in her closet. 

Viktor was easier to spot as he was flying on the periphery of the pitch with the other coaches.

The match started after the usual introductions, and Hermione lost track of the players and balls almost immediately. The announcers were her only real guide to the match and they weren’t much better, shouting names she didn't know in rapid succession without much time to explain what was actually happening. She managed to gather there was a foul at some point in the second play and she saw Viktor and the other coaches speaking with what seemed to be one of their beaters.

It had started raining about forty minutes into the the match, causing Hermione to have to cast a repelling charm around her. The streams of rain all but completely obscured her view of the plays, which only made following them that much more impossible. After several long minutes of heavy rain Hermione was thoroughly frustrated and was starting to resent her choice to come at all. Thankfully the Bulgarian seeker caught the snitch shortly thereafter and her side of the stands erupted in joy and elation. She watched with relief as the sodden players did victory laps around the pitch, and wondered where she should meet Viktor at.

As the jubilant celebrations around her raged on, she decided that she would need to catch him on his way to the changing rooms or risk losing track of him altogether in the crowds. Thankfully the rain had slowed to a mist as she made her way down the stairs toward the stadium exit, not far from where the teams would dismount and walk to the changing rooms.

She stood anxiously waiting for what felt like ages, avoiding the muddy areas and watching as the coaches and teams visited the top box, shaking hands and taking the customary photographs. Watching the flash of the photographers' bulbs she was more grateful than ever that she had traded seats.

Finally the Bulgarian team landed on the ground and Krum was deep in happy conversation with the team’s seeker as he approached. 

“Viktor!” She called out nervously, hoping he would hear her over the din. When he didn’t she called out once more, louder, and finally caught his attention.

His face split into a smile at the sight of her and he said something to the seeker, who walked on without him as Viktor approached Hermione on the sidelines. He was sodden and disheveled and his robes were flecked with mud, but he was smiling broadly and looked relieved to see her.

“Hermy-own-ninny, I am glad to see you, I did not think you had come! I looked for you in the top box, did you not get my tickets?”

She smirked a little at his mispronunciation of her name, something she had somehow managed to forget about. She didn’t bother to correct him, she found it almost endearing. “I did, I’m sorry for the confusion about that. They were lovely seats, I just thought lower-profile seats may keep the press at bay, so I switched with another couple. I hope that's okay, I am so grateful to you for the invite and for securing the tickets.”

“No problem at all, it vas my pleasure. I am just glad you could make it. Did you enjoy the match?”

“I did,” she lied, “thank you.”

“You did not vant to bring a friend?” He asked, looking around.

“Oh, I invited her, she couldn’t come,” Hermione answered, not elaborating.

“I am sorry to hear that. Vould you still like to visit vith me?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione smiled, and hoped she didn’t sound too eager.

“Good, good. If you are hungry I have a restaurant in mind, Bellamy’s, it is not far from here.” 

She was surprised that he would suggest that restaurant, “but that’s a muggle place, isn’t it?” Hermione had a mental image of crystal chandeliers lit with electric bulbs and waitstaff in muggle waistcoats, a half-forgotten memory from her parents’ thirtieth anniversary dinner years earlier.

Viktor looked momentarily embarrassed, “it is, yes. I find it is easier to… blend in when in muggle places. You do not mind, do you?”

Hermione smiled, “no, of course not. Actually, I think it’s rather clever.” 

He grinned in response. “I vill just get changed then, stay here,” he instructed and he left in the direction of the changing rooms.

She watched him leave, and looked down at the dress she had initially loved for its simplicity, but now seemed not quite fancy enough for the venue. She wished she had had the foresight to ask him where they would be going. She wondered how he would look in muggle clothes, having only ever seen him in quidditch robes, dress robes, or his school uniform when they were young.

She waited as patiently as she could as the minutes dragged on. She watched the remaining fans filter out of the stadium, chattering excitedly or bad-naturedly, depending on the colors they were sporting. One balding man in green was being supported by two of his friends as he stumbled and shouted incoherently, Hermione could only make out “bloody Bulgarians, I always said… not worth… broomsticks they fly on!”

As she watched the balding man slip from his keepers’ grips and fall into the mud, she heard Viktor’s voice behind her. “Are you ready to go?”

She turned to face him and her breath caught for a second. He was smartly dressed in black trousers, a white button down, and a black leather jacket. His hair was wet and slicked back, his strong jaw freshly shaven, and he looked so handsome and natural in these clothes that she imagined he would be at home straddling a motorcycle in a muggle fashion magazine. “You look… very nice,” she finished, feeling herself colouring at how long she had stared. 

“As do you,” he replied as he cast an appreciative glance over her.

“Thank you,” she responded, feeling her cheeks warm further. “How are we traveling?” She asked, wanting to change the subject.

“I vill Apparate us, if that is okay?”

“That would be lovely,” she answered, feeling relieved that she would not be climbing on a broomstick.

He held out an arm to her, and she took it, following him into darkness.


	6. The Dream

A moment later, they landed in a small park in a little copse of trees. “I do not think anyone has seen us,” he said, glancing around to ensure the coast was clear. She realised she was still holding on to his arm and let her hand fall awkwardly away. “Ve are not far,” he continued, “it is just a minute’s valk that vay,” he pointed in the direction of the cobblestone street and ancient storefronts. 

They set off at a casual pace, the night air cool, clear, and fresh as it only is after a rainstorm. She felt slightly chilly in the sleeveless dress and wished she had thought to wear a cardigan, or shawl, or anything else really. She was glad for the short walk as the restaurant came into view. The doorman at the heavy oak door nodded wordlessly to them as he pulled it open to admit them into a marble-floored entryway. 

“Reservation?” The maitre’d drawled in a haughty, bored voice.

“Krum,” Viktor responded. Hermione was surprised that he would use his real name, though she supposed his anonymity in the muggle world made him comfortable with this.

“Yes,” he confirmed, and snapped his fingers. A waiter in the same waistcoat and tails Hermione remembered appeared to guide them to their table, seemingly needing no further direction.

The floors were marble throughout, the walls were panelled in dark wood, the chandeliers bigger than Hermione remembered, and there was a gas fireplace lit in one corner. The tables were draped in crisp white tablecloths and each featured a vase of exquisite cut flowers in various shades of white and cream, flanked by silver candlesticks casting a warm, purely decorative glow on the tables. 

When the waiter halted at a table tucked in the back corner, Viktor paused to pull out a chair and offer it to Hermione. She was surprised at this act of chivalry, but she liked the courtesy of it. She smiled graciously and took the proffered seat, then watched as Viktor removed his jacket and handed it to the waiter before he took the seat opposite her.

The waiter stepped away, and returned moments later with a bottle of white wine, pouring it expertly into the goblets beside them.

There were no menus, and as the waiter explained the dishes of the night Hermione noted that it was all French cuisine. Krum ordered the duck confit, and Hermione, not quite listening and too nervous to be sure she could even eat, ordered the same.

The whole effect was very romantic, and it was increasingly clear to Hermione that in spite of what she had told Ginny, their “visit” was indeed a date. And despite whatever she’d been telling herself about the possibility of that, now that she was in it, she definitely liked it. 

“It has been a long time since ve have seen one another,” Viktor observed, watching her with serious eyes from across the table.

“It has,” she agreed, looking for subtle signs of change in his appearance, he was older of course, she could see it around his eyes, but his hair was as black as it had always been, not a strand of white visible in it, in contrast to her own. He was also so much broader than before, definitely more muscular. It seemed as if he had taken up extra weight training in his retirement as a quidditch player- the lithe, aerodynamic body of a seeker no longer necessary as a coach. She couldn’t say it was a negative change at all.

“You are even more beautiful than I remembered,” he claimed.

“You are flattering me,” Hermione responded, trying not to smile.

“Flattery is lies, and I vould not lie to you.”

The first course, a creamy soup, was served, and Hermione thought the conversation would change, but as the waiter stepped away Viktor continued.

“It vos the Quidditch World Cup, I believe?”

“It was,” Hermione answered, surprised he remembered their conversation with how many other more important things happened that day. 

“You vore black then too. I remember because I vondered if you vere cheering for me.” He eyed her over his wine glass as he took a sip.

“Of course, I was overjoyed for you when you won,” she too, took a sip of her wine.

“Yes, I believe you hugged me.”

“I did," she said, remembering the moment, "though I’m not sure Nevena appreciated it too much,” Hermione thought of how his then-wife’s disapproving glare had reminded her to release Viktor a little sooner than she would have done. She thought of his ex-wife, of the mixed feelings she had felt when he had married her. She was happy for him, she had told herself, but she was overcome with other feelings that she couldn’t acknowledge then, not when she was exhausted with a newborn, a toddler, and a husband who she struggled to communicate with.

Now she could recognize that what she had been feeling was uncertainty and doubt when she had looked at pictures of Viktor hugging and kissing Nevena over and over again. Uncertainty that she had made the right decisions in her life, doubt that she would ever feel as sure about her life as Viktor looked with Nevena. Nevena, with her tall, slim, model-like figure and long, golden hair contrasting against his dark features and broad build. They had looked like they belonged in a magazine, and indeed they featured in many of them throughout the course of their relationship. Especially at the end, in stories riddled with lies and rumours of affairs and financial ruin. However, Hermione knew from Viktor's letters to her that the real reason for the divorce was that Nevena didn’t want children, and Viktor did. It was that simple. But the truth didn’t sell magazines.

“And your Ronald, I do not think liked it either,” Viktor parried. 

“Not exactly. Ronald was an admirer of yours prior to you and I knowing each other, he didn’t much like that we became friends during the Triwizard Tournament.” She left out the part that he hadn’t liked them keeping in touch the many years since.

“Ve vere more than friends, I thought.” Viktor said softly, his dark eyes so intense on hers that they could have been alone and not in a public place surrounded by other people. 

She felt breathless, as she always had around him. “We were,” she agreed.

His eyes stayed warm and heavy on hers a moment longer, then he said, “yes, but ve have been friends much longer. And ve are both divorced now, so maybe should not concern ourselves vith the jealousies of old partners.”

Hermione smiled and sipped her soup, “agreed.”

“Vot happened?” Viktor asked, his eyes serious, “vith you and your Ronald?”

Hermione hesitated, that was the question she had tried not to ask herself for months, tried not to even think about, and certainly didn’t want to talk about here, under Viktor's intense gaze. “I don’t know… a lot of things… we just kind of… drifted apart.”

Viktor politely waited for her to finish, but when she didn’t he concluded, “vell, he is stupid to have let you go.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “Yes, well, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all that mess,” she tried to sound unflustered, “tell me about your travels.”

Viktor, to his credit, let the subject drop, and responded, “vot vould you like to know?”

“Where have you been since you last wrote, have you done any sightseeing?”

“Ve vere in Paris last week. I do not visit many places, I do not like to be photographed, so I usually only visit muggle places. I did go to see the Eiffel Tower, I think it is called.”

“How lovely! I love Paris, I’ve been to Eiffel Tower many times when visiting family in France.”

“Your family is muggles, yes?”

Hermione felt herself bristle in the way she always did when this subject came up, even now all these years after entering the wizarding world and even with how progressive the world had become since the end of the Second Wizarding War. “Yes, they are,” she tried to keep defensiveness out of her tone, and pride in it.

“That is nice, ven you holiday vith them it must be nice to get a break from it all.”

She was caught off guard by this statement, “from it all?”

“From being Minister for Magic, from being followed, and photographed, and the pressure of it all.”

Hermione had never considered it that way before, “well yes, I imagine it would, though I haven’t been on holiday with my family in quite a long time,” she felt almost ashamed at the realization.

“You should take a break, it is good for you. I like to be around muggles, they are so clever in how they adapt. I like riding in their cars and aeroplanes, it alvays delights me. Some vizards do not like muggles, but I do not know vhy, I find that muggles are usually very nice.”

Hermione chuckled a bit, “well, that depends entirely on the muggles.”

“And perhaps on the vitch or vizard as vell,” Viktor offered.

“Very true,” Hermione agreed.

Their soup, barely touched, was cleared away by the waiter and replaced with their main dishes. There was agreeable silence while they ate, and as the wine was refilled Hermione felt herself lulled into a sense of comfort and familiarity, the conversation becoming more robust and the tension staying consistent throughout.

The entree was cleared and replaced with a delicate many layered cake that Hermione couldn’t finish, and a new wine to go with it. Hermione was practically floating from the combination of wine and laughter by the time their last dishes had been cleared and Viktor had paid for the bill with an impressive understanding of muggle money.

When they stepped out of the warmth of the humming restaurant and back out onto the cobblestones outside Hermione shivered. The night air had become even cooler while they ate, and she was especially regretting her lack of jacket as they walked the distance back toward the park. 

“You are cold,” Viktor observed, stopping to remove his leather jacket.

“Oh I’m fine, you don’t need to do that.”

“Please, you are cold,” he repeated, holding the jacket open for her. 

“Thank you,” she responded, allowing him to slip the jacket over her shoulders. She was immediately enveloped in the warmth from his body heat, the inside lining was silky on her skin and it smelled of leather and what must be his scent. She readjusted the front of it, it was much too large for her and she felt like a child wearing her father’s coat, it was comforting in an odd way.

He looked pleased as she embraced herself in it, “better?”

“Much, thank you,” she returned his smile, and they walked on for a bit in charged silence.

“It vos a nice meal,” he said as they rounded a corner back to the little copse of trees that had been their Apparition point. A group of muggle musicians had taken up in the gazebo not far away, playing what Hermione assumed was a classical music. Hermione and Viktor’s steps slowed as they realised they wouldn’t be able to Disapparate right away. 

“It was very nice, thank you for inviting me, and for paying, you didn't have to do that.”

“It vos all my pleasure,” he smiled, glancing over at her as the muggle band started up a new tune, this one slower, heavy on the violin.

“Dance vith me?”

“Here?”

“Vhy not? There is music.”

“I suppose so,” she took his proffered hand, and he pulled her closer. He felt warm and solid against her and she could smell the clean, crisp smell of his aftershave.

“You have alvays been a good dancer,” he said after a moment.

“I’m sure you’re just flattering me, but thank you for the compliment.”

“No, I mean it,” he twirled her, “you are… graceful.”

She laughed, “I doubt I have ever been called that before, but I suppose if I am a good follow it’s because I have a good lead.”

He smiled in response and pulled her closer again. The tune was slow and sweet, and somehow familiar. Viktor was humming along quietly in her ear.

“What song is this?” She asked, turning to face him, his face so close to hers in the moonlight that she could see the stubble on his jawline.

He smiled, “it is called ‘Perfect’ I think. I am surprised you do not know this one, it vos very popular a few years ago.”

“Ah!” She nodded in recognition, “I do know it. I am surprised you do though, I didn’t take you for an Ed Sheeran fan. Do you often listen to muggle music?”

“Ven I am in muggle places, I guess. I vill admit I do like this one though.”

She smiled a bit to herself, turning her cheek to rest on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt and closing her eyes, trying to absorb the moment. One rough hand gently holding hers, the pressure of his other on her lower back, the scent of chimney smoke on the cold night air around them, and the sound of string instruments playing an impromptu concert. 

“It is very fitting, this night has been perfect,” he said it quietly, matter-of-factly, without pretense.

She looked up at him, he was smiling gently at her, his strong, dark features that much more distinct in the half-light, his breath escaping in faint vapor clouds. Their eyes met, and before she knew what was happening, they were drawn in to each other, their faces meeting halfway, cold noses and warm lips touching, tentative at first, then mouths opening to drink each other in deeper. Her mind was blank except for the word 'perfect.'

“Yes,” she said, when at last their lips parted. 

He seemed momentarily confused, “yes vot?”

“Yes, it has been perfect, like a dream or something. I am sad for it to end,” she said, hoping the admission didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

“Me too,” he answered, pulling her still closer. Then after a long pause, “it doesn’t have to, not yet, if you do not vant it to,” he said.

She felt her pulse quicken, “what would we do? Dance in the park all night?” She hoped her tone came off as light, but she was too nervous to be sure. This all felt so new somehow.

He chuckled lightly, “if you vant, though it is maybe a bit cold for that tonight.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh, “just as well, I doubt they’d keep playing that long.”

“They vill keep playing for as long as I keep paying,” he chuckled again.

She turned to look at him, forgetting to dance, “you’re paying them to play?”

He paused too, looking down at her, “yes. Do you not like it?” There was a tone of concern in his voice.

“No, I mean, yes, I do like it. I’m just surprised. Why?”

“How else vould I get you into my arms again?” He asked, his tone light.

She smiled, “well, you could’ve just asked.”

“I did, I just… set the stage for it first.”

She took a moment to appreciate this statement, trying to evaluate how she felt about that kind of premeditation. It wasn't as if he had lied to her or misled her, but he had planned this, had hoped that their plans to 'catch up' would end here, with their bodies pressing in and mouths together. The effort he had put into the evening was undeniably romantic, and that thought raised a flood of feelings inside of her- confusion, and desire, and gratitude; a yearning for the romance that had been missing in her life for so long. And, she reasoned with herself, she deserved a little romance in her life.

“Ve do not have to dance anymore, ve can do votever you vant,” he said, watching her face as if trying to read her contemplations.

She thought of what she really wanted to do. Then she thought of him coming back to her house, the one she had shared with Ron until not so long ago, the children’s bedrooms and their pictures and paraphernalia scattered all throughout, and immediately struck the idea.

“Where are you staying?” She asked boldly.

“A muggle place not far from here. Vould you like to come by for another drink?”

“You did promise me firewhiskey,” she reminded him as the last notes of the song died out.

He laughed again, “that is true.” The band was cueing up another song. “Ve can valk there from here, if that is okay?”

Her heart beat faster, “yes, let’s.” 

He pulled away from her, but holding her hand still at his side, touching her so softly and intentionally that she felt adrenaline coursing through her body. As they set off in the opposite direction, the sounds of the band becoming less distinct behind them, she could scarcely believe what she was doing.

The cobbled streets were lit with electric street lamps, the cars lining it and groups of people passing by with phones in their hands marked this as a muggle place, but she didn’t mind it. It increased the feeling of intimacy between them. She knew now why he liked to be in muggle spaces, the anonymity was freeing. They walked surrounded, but alone in this place, sharing the secrets of their magic- both the kind that was represented by the wands hidden in their pockets, and the chemistry that crackled like electricity in the night air between them. Every small shift, casual brush of limbs, tensing of fingers, shot a new bolt of it through her.


	7. The Mirror of Erised

The 'muggle place' that Viktor was staying in was a converted Victorian bed and breakfast. He kept hold of her hand as he led her up the winding staircase to a room that he opened with an electronic keycard, as he did he looked over at her and said “amazing, no?” She smiled at his appreciation, continually amazed by his ease and comfort in the muggle world.

Inside was a sitting room with two doors leading off into what she imagined must be a bedroom and a bath.

There was a television, a blue striped sofa, a lamp, and a minibar in the sitting room. Viktor offered to take his jacket from her, and she sank into the sofa as he approached the minibar.

“I must break a promise to you," he said, surveying the selection of bottles on the little cart, "there is no firevhiskey here, but there is muggle vhiskey if you are interested?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said, indifferent to anything but having him close to her again.

“Vhiskey it is,” he said, pouring a serving of the amber liquid into two separate glasses.

He returned to the couch and handed her a glass before settling down next to her, his knee grazing hers as he did so. “A toast,” he said, raising his glass to hers.

She raised hers in response, “what are we toasting?”

“A perfect night,” he said, his eyes not leaving her face.

“A perfect night,” she agreed, touching her glass to his, not breaking their eye contact as they each drank a hearty gulp.

It burned her throat in a different way than firewhiskey.

“You have other plans for the veekend?” Viktor asked conversationally.

“Just work.”

“On Saturday? Vot is the point of an office job if you have to vork on Saturday?”

She chuckled, “there is no such thing as a day off for the Minister for Magic. Even when I’m home I’m always on call really.”

“No? I am sorry to hear that. Am I keeping you too late for a vork night?” His eyes were moving between her eyes and her lips, and there was an aching desire brewing inside her. She was feeling warmed by the alcohol and was dying for him to kiss her again.

“Not at all,” she responded, a little breathless at the intensity of his gaze.

“Good,” he said, reaching out a hand and rubbing a thumb across her lips, she pressed her lips back against it and he moved in, kissing her with feeling and closing the distance between their bodies. She could feel him pressing in against her, his hand in her hair, his mouth on her lips, her jaw, her neck. She pushed in closer to him in her urgency, wanting more of him, wanting to climb on top of him. He pulled away suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, feeling dazed.

“I think you spilled a little of your drink on me.” She looked down and indeed had splashed whiskey on his white shirt.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” She fretted, putting down the glass she didn’t realise she was still holding, “I can clean it with my wand, I’m really good at siphoning spells.”

He smiled, “do not vorry, I vill be right back,” he put down his own glass and walked toward the bedroom, pushing the door open and peeling off his shirt just inside. The room was still dark, but Hermione could see his outline and the ripple of his muscles as he retrieved a new shirt from somewhere in the shadows.

“Don’t,” she said as he was preparing to put the clean shirt on. He looked out at her. “Don’t,” she said again, more boldly this time. He hesitated for a moment before discarding the shirt and coming back out into the sitting room. As she had imagined, he really did look like a male model, all broad shoulders and defined musculature. He sat down next to her and started kissing her again, one hand on her face, the other on the small of her back. She pulled him closer, his skin warm and smooth over the taut muscles. As the kiss deepened both of their breathing became erratic, and Hermione was getting lost is the hazy delirium of arousal. She was touching his firm arms, his shoulders, his waist, working her way to his belt when he pulled away from her again.

“You have been drinking, you are recently broken up. I do not vant to take advantage of you,” Viktor said, not removing his hand from her face.

“You’re sweet, but I’m not drunk,” she kissed him deeply, as if this proved her point. It wasn’t a lie, she wasn’t plastered, but she was emboldened, her inhibitions lower, her filter not quite quick enough to catch her thoughts before they raced out of her mouth.

He pulled back from her lips just enough, “I mean it, I not vant you to regret me,” there was real feeling there, something like vulnerability in his eyes.

“I have been thinking of this since before the whiskey. Been thinking of it all night really.”

“Have you?” His voice was just above a whisper, his lips so close. She felt a throb of desire.

“Yes, maybe longer,” she confessed, unable to take her eyes off his lips, wanting them everywhere on her.

“You are sure?” He asked, voice low and husky, his grip a little tighter on her.

“Absolutely,” she breathed, and to her relief he kissed her, hard and reflecting the need that she was feeling.

“May I take you to bed now?”

She smiled at this phrasing, “yes,” she responded, and wound her arms around him. He lifted her effortlessly up and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her into the bedroom.

He placed her gently down onto the cool, silken bedding. The room was dark and he lit candles on the bedside tables with a wordless flick of his wand. Her dress was hiked up around her thighs and she could feel the rough material of his trousers against her bare skin. He kissed her neck and her head fell back in pleasure. When she opened her eyes she was shocked to see their reflection above her. There was a mirror embedded in the canopy of the bed. She watched the bird’s eye view of Viktor’s massive figure on top of hers, of his head bent over her neck, working its way to her chest.

He looked up at her face, then, following her eyes, at their reflection. He grinned, “it is nice, no?” He kissed her lips, and then returned his mouth to her chest as he worked one strap of her dress down off her shoulder, exposing a lacy bra cup. He ran a thumb over the lace tantalizingly before hooking it with his finger and pulling it down to expose her nipple.

“Very nice,” she breathed, getting more turned on as she watched him undress her from above, his warm mouth enveloping her nipple, his tongue teasing it gently. She moaned aloud at this simple act, it had been so long, too long, since she had been taken like this. He pulled down the other side of her dress and her bra, until both her breasts were exposed, and he dipped his head between them, teasing one peak and then the other until they were both tingling and firm in his mouth and fingers.

“Your body is perfect,” he groaned, kissing her lips.

“Thank you,” she answered, breathless.

“So polite,” he grinned, “I vonder if you also say ‘please’?”

She was confused for a moment until one of his strong hands began stroking the inside of her bare thigh, just outside of her panties. He kissed her deeper, his tongue stroking hers, and she knew she was soaked through her panties by now. “Please?” She asked tentatively.

“Mmm,” he moaned into her mouth, and moved his fingers over the wet cloth between her thighs, sliding a finger tantalizingly over her slit through the material.

He continued to tease her this way for several minutes until she thought she might scream if he didn’t go underneath, “please!” she gasped, and the sound was desperate.

He groaned his approval again and slid his fingers under the sodden cloth and over her sensitive, slippery, skin from clit to opening, and back again.

She moaned with needing him, squirming under his touch. It was too gentle, too slow, too teasing. “More, please,” she begged, and in response his motions quickened. He drew delicate circles around her clit with his thumb, applying even pressure and repetitive stimulation until she was grinding against him in rhythm. He dipped a finger inside her gently and she moaned with the sudden feeling. Pulling his hand away in what could only be an effort to torture her, he brought the finger that had been inside her to his mouth and tasted it. She squirmed in response.

“Mmm, you taste as good as you feel,” he whispered, dipping a finger back inside her and raising it to her lips this time, keeping his eyes trained on her mouth as she took it inside, automatically sucking her juices off of his finger, and tasting herself. “See?” He responded, kissing her lips, “you taste sweet, like melon. I vant to taste it all. Vould you like that?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

“Yes vot?” He asked, aroused but clearly in control.

“Yes, please,” she begged.

“Good,” he whispered, and kissed down her body until his head was between her thighs. She watched in the mirror above them as he pulled her panties down her legs and threw them onto the floor. Then he parted her thighs wider with his big hands, and lowered his mouth until his tongue was on her, tasting her, stroking her, nibbling her, taking cues from her body’s response and flattening his tongue and rubbing it against her clit, over and over and over.

She gasped in pleasure, feeling her climax building, and watched in the mirror as she reached down and wound her fingers into his hair, holding his head in place. “Right there,” she whispered, feeling her body start to twitch and quake with the pleasure of his tongue rocking against her at exactly the right spot and pressure. He pushed a finger inside her, stroking her gently from within and she felt overwhelmed with the sensation of his mouth and finger working in unison. “Yes, yes!” She cried, letting go, exploding into a firework display of bright white, and releasing a deep, primal moan.

She floated down from the orgasm and collapsed back in exhaustion. Sated and enthralled, she looked down at him kissing the inside of her thighs. She smiled at the tender sight, and at his dark hair, comically mussed from her grip on it. He grinned back and wiped his mouth with a hand, seeming almost as satisfied with his handiwork as she was.

She could tell by his expression that he would be okay with ending it there, that he expected nothing in return from her. But as satisfied and dazed as she was, she wanted more of him. She wanted all of him. She reached for his face and pulled him up to her, kissing him on the mouth and tasting more of herself there. Reaching a hand to his hard chest, down his abs, rubbing the firm bulge below his waist from over his trousers. He groaned in response and she felt pleased, bringing her other hand down to undo his belt buckle, then his button and zipper, racing to get inside. Once the zipper was undone she slid a hand under the elastic of his boxer shorts, feeling for him until her hand slipped easily along the length of him, already slick with his excitement.

He groaned deeper and pressed into her, kissing her harder. He was thick and rock hard in her grip, and she could feel herself, already soaked from her previous orgasm, somehow getting more aroused in response. She released him long enough to bring her hands up and pull his trousers and boxers down, until he was as naked from the waist down as she, his cock falling deliciously heavy and warm on her thigh.

It was all coming quickly and instinctually now, she stroked him harder, he reached a hand around and quickly undid her bra, taking a nipple between his lips as he worked the straps off her arms and threw her bra too on the floor. He was kissing her neck, her lips, inserting another finger inside her slick entrance until she couldn't wait another second. She pulled away and forced him onto his back.

She lowered herself into his lap and wrapped her lips around him, hearing his sharp intake of breath as her mouth slid over the skin of his cock farther and farther, until she was choking on it. “Mamka,” he whispered- she didn’t know what it meant, but she could only assume his slipping into Bulgarian in response was a good thing. She luxuriated in the motion, one hand at the base of his shaft, stroking in unison with her mouth, him collecting her hair gently and moving it aside so he could watch her. She pulled back and licked up the length of him, keeping her eyes on his and watching the helpless expression of his pleasure, “mamka,” he breathed again, and it sounded like a surrender. She sucked him, moving faster as his pleasure mounted, until he was thrusting his hips forward with each stroke of her mouth.

She knew if she kept going she would drive him to his release, but she was throbbing with the need to have him inside her. She pulled her mouth back, keeping the motion with her fist, sliding slippery and easily over the length of him. “Fuck me, please” she pleaded, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice.

He let out a wild groan, “come here,” he demanded, kissing her fiercely when her mouth was level with his. He reached for his wand, and cast a nonverbal spell where her mouth had just been, she watched with fascination as it seemed momentarily enveloped in a opaque sheen, then faded back to normal.

“What was that?”

“Do not vorry, just a safety spell to protect us both,” he said, thrusting his wand away and reaching for her face and pulling her into another kiss.

She was impressed and aroused by his responsibility, she hadn’t even thought of protection, hadn’t ever needed to before now.

She lowered herself down until she was straddling him, not quite touching him. He reached down for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head in one quick motion, tossing it aside so that they were both completely naked, his strong arms and chest glistening with sweat beneath her. As his mouth found her neck, he pulled her waist down and her body onto him, not entering her but positioning her so that her labia and clit slid over the length of him. She moaned in response to the slick contact of their skin, and he was breathing hard and heavy. They thrust together for a few more strokes before the tip of him caught at her opening, and she pushed down onto it, gasping as she felt him enter her with a thrill, his thick cock filling her perfectly. Perfect, she thought again. He shuddered beneath her, his hands tight on her hips as he held her flush against him for a moment, savoring the feeling of being completely inside her.

Then they were moving, slowly at first, then faster, his cock sliding in and out of her, her grinding into him on every down stroke, their hands exploring, mouths tasting, grasping for every inch of each other’s flesh. She was going to orgasm again, and soon, and if she was right, so was he. He was thrusting up into her with more urgency, and guiding her hips and bringing her down onto him harder and faster.

He groaned, “vhere should I come?”

The question almost pushed her over the edge, “inside me,” she answered without hesitation, feeling her climax start to build.

“Mamka,” he muttered, pulling her down onto him so hard and at such a feverish pace that it was almost painful, but it only turned her on more. She tried to hold out for a moment more but she couldn’t, she cried out in blinding pleasure, and could hear him respond “ohh fuuucckk,” as he came, his body tensing with the intensity of it, hands holding her tight against him as the last of his release spilled inside of her.

She collapsed onto him, both of their skin hot and sticky with sweat, both breathing heavy, eyes closed, unable to say or do anything for just a moment. Slowly, she rolled off of him and onto the bed beside him.

“May I clean that up for you?” He asked gently.

When she realised what he meant, she smiled, “yes.”

He pulled his wand over and performed a quick vanishing spell, cleaning up the remains of his orgasm that had started to seep out onto her inner thigh.

He pulled her contentedly against him, and she settled in between his large bicep and chest. His breathing was gradually slowing as was hers, and she found her mind full with thoughts. Surprise, satisfaction, questions about what would happen now, and to her chagrin, comparisons between him and Ron.

“Hermy-own-ninny,” he said, his voice low and almost sleepy.

“Hmm,” she responded, his voice pulling her from her thoughts as she glanced up at him.

“You amaze me. I have thought many times of how that might go. But I could not have imagined it vould be as good as that.”

“You are always flattering me,” she said, feeling embarrassed and pleased in that way she always did when someone complimented her.

“I do no such thing. You are unlike any voman I have ever known. Smart, beautiful, strong, sexy, so incredibly sexy,” he paused running a finger up the outside of her arm. “For me, you have alvays been ‘the one that got avay’, as they call it.” His tone and expression was earnest.

She didn’t know what to say to that. She wondered, had Viktor been that for her? The one that got away? Or was she always so caught up in fighting with Ron, raising their children, building her career, that she hadn’t allowed herself to think that there could be something better out there for her, because if she did it might crush her? She wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing, “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she confessed.

“Then you are not used to hearing the truth, and I vill keep telling it to you until you are.”

She leaned up and kissed him, because she didn’t know another way to express the admiration and gratitude and amazement she was feeling toward him and the whole night’s events, at the reality of this moment.

“You can stay here tonight, if you vant,” he offered as their lips parted, as if he felt her hesitance to leave him in her kiss.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked, watching his face.

“Very much,” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers, the truth there so evident. “Do you vant to stay?”

“Very much,” she repeated.

“Okay,” he smiled.

“Okay,” she grinned back.

He pulled her back down to settle beside him.


	8. Seen and Unforeseen

She woke the next morning with bright sunlight filtering in on her eyes, when she opened them she was momentarily confused about where she was. She was alone in an unfamiliar bed, an electric clock showing 7:04 on the bedside table. Then she looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror and remembered the night before all at once. The match, the dinner, the dancing, the whiskey, the kissing, and oh godric, the sex. She was stricken for a moment by the intensity of the memory, of her and Viktor’s bodies moving together as one, the mere memory sending a pulse of arousal through her, and subsequently, the realization that she was naked. Glancing around she saw her panties, bra, and dress still scattered about the room. She grabbed her wand and summoned them all. She could face the awkward morning after conversation easier if she didn’t have to do it nude. The door pushed open just as she was finishing the zipper on her dress.

“You are avake,” Viktor observed, his tone cheerful and hands full with two steaming travel cups and a small paper bag.

She settled herself on the bed in what she hoped looked like a comfortable, at ease position, “yes, have you been out?”

“Just to look for food,” he answered, handing her one of the cups and sitting near her on the bed.

She could smell the aroma of tea, sweet and milky, curling up with the steam and felt instantly comforted. “What did you find then?”

“There is a muggle cafe nearby, I bought us some scones,” he reached inside the paper bag and removed two berry scones, handing her one that was still warm. “Sorry it is not more, if ve vere at my house, I vould cook breakfast for you.”

She smiled, “it’s perfect, thank you.” Perfect, her brain remembered.

He made eye contact, warm and meaningful with her as he sipped his tea, and for some reason she could feel herself blush.

She took a bite of the scone, light and soft, followed by a hot gulp of tea, and felt easier. She never felt awake before eating in the morning, and as her brain was waking up, the things that had felt so natural and easy by the light of candles and warmth of alcohol the night before looked so different in the bright morning sunshine. She ate quietly and contemplatively, and was vaguely aware of his eyes on her, watching her for signs of, what exactly? Sincerity? Regret? Did she regret it?

“When do you leave?” She asked after she had finally finished her pastry.

“Tomorrow,” he answered, still assessing her.

“So soon.” She stated, not sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

“Yes, but, if you vant to see me, I am sure ve vill see each other soon enough.” It wasn’t a question, but there was no assumption in it either. He didn’t hold her to anything, or seem to have expectations. Maybe that was his way. Maybe after being a famous quidditch star so long he got used to casual experiences where tomorrow was never assumed.

“Yes,” she responded, taking another sip of her tea, “but for now, I must get home, and then to work.”

He grinned, “no days off for the Minister for Magic.”

She was getting up, collecting her things, already looking at the door.

He stood too, and closed the distance between them, “you should Apparate from here.”

“Won’t the muggles hear?” She thought of the loud and distinctive crack of Disapparation.

“I do not think the valls are that thin, judging from last night,” his tone was gentle, pointed, and there it was, that eye contact again, setting her on fire. He held it and she couldn’t look away. He reached for her chin and pulled her mouth gently to his, parting her lips with his own, his mouth and tongue tasting of sugar and tea. The pure intoxication of lust came rushing back to her. “See me again?” He requested, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“Yes,” she agreed, unable in that moment to think of a single reason why she shouldn’t.

He smiled, “have a good day at vork, Minister,” he ended with a single closed mouth kiss on her lips, and stepped back to allow her space to Disapparate.

With one last warm look she Disapparated to home.

***

She Apparated into her bedroom, and sighed deeply, looking around the space with fresh eyes, before collapsing on the bed for a moment. She lay there for several long minutes, trying to process the events of the last twelve hours. Finally she rose, smelling the faint musk of alcohol seeping from her pores, and stripped out of her clothes, making her way for the bath. As she pulled a clean towel off the rack she heard the sound of the garden door closing below her.

Naked, alone, and alarmed, she seized her nearby dressing gown, threw it on, and grabbed her wand before creeping as quietly as she could out onto the landing and down the stairwell, toward the kitchen where the sound had originated. Wondering how the intruder had managed to get past her guard, she had her wand drawn, defensive spells running through her mind as she turned the corner.

Standing just inside the garden door was Ron’s tall figure. She heaved a deep sigh and lowered her wand, “Ron what are you doing here?” Her tone was full of the irritation brought on by her adrenaline and the invasion of her privacy.

“What am I doing here? Good question Hermione, I was only your bloody husband for 20 years, it’s only the house we bought together and raised our children in, why in Merlin’s name would I be here?” His voice was full of barely concealed rage. “Don’t worry Hermione, I won’t stay, I was just passing by and wanted to drop off your copy of the Prophet while I was here.” He reached inside his cloak and pulled out the rolled up paper, tossing it roughly on the table between them. It fell open to the front page and Hermione drew in a sharp breath, pulling the paper towards her.

Front and center was a moving image of Hermione and Viktor, eating, smiling, and flirting at Bellamy’s the night before. Hermione took in the headline “ _Minister for Magic Spotted in Muggle London with Quidditch Legend Viktor Krum_." Somehow, by someone, they had been seen.

She was acutely aware of Ron’s gaze on her as she scanned the article. Her eyes were moving over the words but she could only absorb a few of them, “ _Minister Granger and Mr. Krum both ordered the duck_ …” “ _Krum’s own messy divorce was surrounded by allegations of infidelity,_ ” “... _if the Minister and Krum were having an affair_ …” She couldn’t read any more, she felt she was going to be sick.

She looked up helplessly at him, “Ron…”

“Krum, Hermione?! _KRUM?_ ” He was shouting because he was hurt, she could see it, below his seething anger was pain, and in spite of everything they had put each other through these past almost thirty years, she knew this pain was her fault.

“Ron it’s not true-” she tried before he interrupted.

“It’s not? So this picture is only charmed to make it look like you were on a date with Krum last night?” He had picked up the newspaper and was gesturing at the picture with accusation.

“No! But I would never have cheated on you. I didn’t even know if that was supposed to be a date, we were just catching up. That’s the first time we’ve seen each other in years, I swear Ron, I would never have cheated on you!”

“No? Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore anyway, eh?” He was staring at the picture with sadness and distaste, “blimey, if you wanted to rip my heart out you could’ve done it some other way, or at least in private, or with anyone but Viktor-bloody-Krum. But I guess this way is very efficient, you’ve always been efficient. Selfish, that’s a new one though.” He threw the paper back down on the table. “Keep it, a souvenir for you.”

“I don’t want it,” she responded. She didn’t want to read it or see it, she wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. She didn’t want to think about what it would do to her family, to her children, to her career. What it was doing to Ron right at that moment.

“And I do?” His tone was full of agony and disbelief, his gaze boring into her. His pale blue eyes that had been her home for so long were watery and rimmed with red.

They stood, silently facing each other for a too long moment, the air charged with pain. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it, though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for: the article, the date, the divorce, or the years they spent together, happy and unhappy.

A tear escaped from under his pale eyelashes, feathering into the fine lines that had formed at some point in these past years without her noticing, and sliding down a freckled cheek to the corner of his lips, following a trail of places she had once kissed. She had the selfish impulse to wipe it away, to make it disappear, to comfort him, if only to comfort herself.

But she stayed her hands, and he looked away, “yeah, well, that’s not enough, is it?” He turned back and pulled open the garden door. No sooner had he stepped outside and slammed it behind himself than she heard the telltale crack of his Disapparation on the other side.

She stood alone for a long moment stricken by the sudden silence after the unexpected interaction, drenched in the pain of it. In the unforeseen impact of her choices, refusing to look at the newspaper on the table in front of her.

Finally, she turned and made her way back to the bath, to an overly hot shower, her racing thoughts, and her waiting Ministry robes.


	9. Mayhem at the Ministry

When she arrived at the ministry it was just before 9:00 and Jason was already seated at his desk in the outer office of the Minister’s suite. When she walked in he bid her a too-cheery good morning with minimal eye contact and hastily shifted some memos on top of the morning’s copy of the Prophet.

“It’s okay Jason, I’ve already seen it.” 

He looked guilty and sympathetic, “it’s just awful Minister.”

“Yes, well, these things can’t be helped.”

“We’ve already had two reporters call this morning.”

She sighed, “and I’m sure we’ll have more before the day is through.”

“Should I tell them you’re not in?”

“Tell them I’m only speaking on Ministry business, and if they have policy related questions I’d be happy to speak with them.”

Jason smiled and nodded, and Hermione unlocked her office door with her wand, entered the bright room, and closed it quietly behind her, as if she could keep the incoming chaos out by hiding inside this little purple-carpeted sanctuary.

She hung her cloak on the rack and stepped to the artificial window. She had charmed it to show the actual street above them as if she were looking down on it; it made her feel less claustrophobic. She watched the muggles hurrying about their business, the holiday shoppers with bags and mothers wrapping their children tighter against the blustery day. Murky grey clouds drifted miserably across the sky, and she had the impulse to leave, to disappear into the street, pass among the muggles, and start her life over.

She imagined for a moment what she would have done if her Hogwarts letter had never arrived, tried to picture the life she might’ve had without magic, without Ron. It was a fleeting impulse and she dismissed it as quickly as it came. Thinking of a life without magic was nearly impossible, she couldn't imagine a life that would satisfy her in the muggle world. And though a life without Ron might be quieter and she certainly wouldn't miss the fights, she would miss the laughter, though it had been on short supply recently. However, most important of all, any life outside of this one would exclude their children, and that was something Hermione couldn't reconcile.

She sighed and turned back to her desk, to the stacks of memos awaiting her perusal, the scrolls awaiting her signature, and thought longingly of her armchair and a hot cup of tea. Instead she settled in and pulled a stack of parchment towards her.

By noon she had survived an emergency meeting with the PR head for the Ministry, surprise visits from reporters, and had even managed to work herself through some the memos on her desk. It was quite a feat with far too many interruptions from Jason wondering what to do with the letters that were pouring in faster than he could handle. It was after lunch and her patience was thin when yet another tapping came at her door.

“Enter,” she answered automatically, peering up and expecting to see Jason again with another howler, but was surprised to see Ginny’s face in her doorway. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Oh hullo, it’s your sister and best friend, come to spring you from this prison,” Ginny said cheerfully, walking into the office and shutting the door behind her.

“Sorry, too much work to do,” Hermione said, indicating the piles of papers around her.

“Hermione it’s Saturday. You shouldn’t even be at work on a normal day, let alone in the middle of this mess.” She didn’t need to say what mess, it was clear from her presence there that Ginny had also seen the morning’s Prophet, had likely even already seen Ron.

“Well I’m not leaving, so just tell me I’m an idiot who ruined her family and move on.”

“Well, you’re a bit of an idiot, but you didn’t ruin your family. If I can’t convince you to leave at least come round for dinner tonight and we’ll talk,” she was leaning against the chair opposite of Hermione’s desk.

“What about Harry?” Hermione asked pointedly. Harry had been her best friend for many years, but just as she had doubted he would go to Krum's match with her, her instincts told her this wasn't a situation Harry wanted to get in the middle of.

“He’ll be with Ron, obviously.”

“Why is that obvious?” Hermione bristled.

“Because Ron is my brother and you’re my best friend. You are both Harry’s best friends. Obviously we have to divide and conquer with our support, and this is the best breakdown for everyone in this situation.”

“While I appreciate your diplomacy, I am fine, and do not need you to cheer me up.”

“I’m not here to make you feel better, though if that happens I’ll take credit for it. I’m here for all the juicy details on Krum, which if you remember correctly, I was promised. To be fair I expected to hear them firsthand, and not from Rita Skeeter, but now that I’ve had a teaser I’m that much more interested for the real story.”

Hermione just glared at her. 

“Hermione a promise is a promise. If I can’t convince you to leave early at least swear you’ll come round to dinner.”

She sighed, “fine. Now get out of the Minister’s office before I have you thrown out.”

“Ooh don’t tempt me, I haven’t had a good skirmish in ages, and I’ve been itching to hex someone. What about your secretary, what’s-his-name?”

“Jason, he’s my Junior Assistant, not a secretary, and you’re not hexing him.”

“Just a bit? He’s so forgettable, who’d even notice?” She grinned at Hermione, who in spite of herself, was grinning back.

“No hexing.”

“What fun is it being best friends with the Minister for Magic if you can’t hex someone every once in a while?” She grumbled.

“Get out, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Ginny smiled and stepped back towards the door “six o'clock, don’t be late,” she pulled the door open and shut it behind her before Hermione could change her mind.


	10. Hermione's Secret

_Minister for Magic Spotted in Muggle London with Quidditch Legend Viktor Krum_

_An exclusive Daily Prophet source confirms the Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger (formerly Granger-Weasley) had an intimate dinner date Friday night with Bulgarian quidditch legend Viktor Krum. The pair dined at an upscale muggle restaurant in London that specializes in French cuisine. Our source reported that Minister Granger and Mr. Krum both ordered the duck, followed by decadent dessert, and that they imbibed “several” glasses of wine each, before leaving the restaurant together on foot. Our source described their chemistry as “flirtatious” and “familiar.”_

_This outing is the first public sighting of the Minister since her divorce was announced just over a month ago. Krum’s own messy divorce was surrounded by allegations of infidelity, a fact more clearly understood in light of these recent events. Is it possible that both of these high-profile divorces were caused by an ongoing affair between the British Minister for Magic and the Bulgarian Seeker? Indeed, if the Minister and Krum were having an affair, how long had it been going on for? [continued on pg. 3]_

_[continued from pg. 1]_  
_It is commonly known that Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum have a history together that goes back long before she was Minister for Magic and he was a Quidditch World Cup Champion, as far back as their school days. In fact, before Minister Granger ever dated her former husband and Hogwarts sweetheart, Ronald Weasley, she made waves in the magical community for capturing the heart and attention of Viktor Krum, at that time only 18 years old and at the beginning of his illustrious quidditch career. A connection that supposedly ended only in heartbreak for Mr. Krum._

_But did this story of first love and heartbreak ever truly end? There were rumors of a continued connection between the two after the Second Wizarding War, though Ms. Granger was said to have been seeing Mr. Weasley during that time. Is it possible that the pair have been having a secret affair for more than twenty-five years? One might even wonder if the Granger-Weasley children’s hair is naturally red, or only charmed to appear that way?_

_In addition to any questions of moral-fitness this knowledge may bring into question, the situation casts doubt on the Minister’s impartiality in her professional dealings with the Bulgarians. It can be assumed the Minister will have a lot of questions to answer as her campaign for re-election looms nearer in the next two years._

 

“It’s so much worse than I realised,” Hermione said, her tone full of disgust, hot tears of anger springing to her eyes as she closed the paper and pushed it away from her into the middle of the table.

“She’s a right cow alright,” Ginny agreed from the counter where she was overseeing a bowl of ingredients that was mixing itself.

“I knew she was vile, but to claim our children aren’t Ron’s is a new level of low I never considered. No wonder he was so upset.”

“He wouldn’t believe that for a second,” Ginny scoffed, “he’d have to be mental, as would anyone who would take one look at them and deny the Weasley genes. ‘Charmed to appear that way’ my arse.  And it's not even good journalism, Hugo doesn't have red hair.”

“The whole thing is just awful. To imply that Krum and I had been having an affair, that I cheated on Ron throughout our whole relationship, it’s madness.”

“Well, that’s old Rita for you. Want me to hex her?” Ginny asked hopefully as she broke an egg into her mix.

“I’d love that. But seriously isn’t there anything you can do at work?”

“I mean, I don’t have any type of pull or editorial control over anything but sports. Now if she was writing about Krum’s career in my section, I’d be able to do something, but this is out of my depth for sure.”

Hermione sighed deeply, “in that case, I think Rita and I are overdue for another little conversation,” she mused.

“I can’t wait to hear about that,” Ginny grinned, “speaking of things I can’t wait to hear about, how was the match? I saw that Krum’s team won, though that second play had me worried for a moment.”

“Ginny you know that you could be speaking Mermish and I’d probably understand it better than your quidditch talk.”

“True. Well, I know how the game went, and I can see how well you enjoyed it. What happened next? The infamous dinner? How was the duck? You did have the duck, right?”

“Yes, they got that part right at least. It was fine, good, I guess.”

“Who do you think snitched on you? It was a muggle place wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s why he picked it, anonymity and all that, seemed like he’d been there before. I’m assuming it was the waiter, maybe a squib or something, he seemed a little too knowing, but I thought I was just being paranoid.”

“You just can’t have any privacy can you?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, then what happened, duck and photoshoot aside?”

“We walked back to our Apparition point in the park, but there was a muggle band there, so we couldn’t Disapparate. Well, Viktor was paying them, but I didn’t know that at first, it just seemed like one of those cute, unrealistic moments you read about in romance novels.”

“He paid a muggle band to play for you?” Ginny sounded incredulous.

“I know, so corny, but it was rather sweet,” she couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

“Did you dance?” Ginny accused, seeing something in her expression.

“What?”

“Were you two dancing in the park like a couple of loonies?”

“Maybe,” Hermione answered, trying and failing to be evasive.

“Wow, that is sickly sweet. Tell me more.”

Hermione laughed, feeling more lighthearted than she had since Ron’s visit that morning, and realizing that she was kind of enjoying sharing her secret with Ginny. “Umm, we danced, he kissed me,” Ginny’s face lit up with intrigue but she didn’t interrupt, “and then we decided to… go back to his rooms and have another drink.” She hoped she sounded nonchalant, but there was no way to make this statement any less momentous than it was.

“You went back to _his rooms_?” Ginny repeated with meaning.

“Yes, we had some muggle whiskey.”

“And did you _make use_ of his rooms?” Ginny’s expression was full of innuendo.

“Maybe,” Hermione repeated, and she could feel the blood rushing to her face.

“Merlin, you don’t mess about do you?”

“Hey now!” Hermione’s tone was defensive, “I am a forty year old, divorced woman who has needs.”

“Oh I’m not judging, just impressed. How was it?”

Hermione couldn’t hide the smile that rose to her lips. “It was… superb, amazing, a number of other superlatives that I’d rather not share.”

Ginny laughed, “well, I can’t say I’m surprised the man knows how to handle his broomstick.”

Hermione burst with laughter, and was sure she was still blushing, “yes, that’s one way to put it. Though I must say he was rather good with his tongue for such a soft-spoken man.”

It was Ginny’s turn to howl with laughter, “well I’m glad to hear it, I daresay you deserved a good shagging.”

“I definitely needed it, that’s for sure,” Hermione sighed, “though I’m not sure it was worth it.”

“Why not? All this rubbish?” Ginny indicated the newspaper on the table.

“Well, yes. I mean this isn’t just a gossip column, this will affect my children, my career. You’ve heard how upset Ron is.”

“Who cares what Ron thinks? That’s the point of a divorce Hermione, you don’t have to worry about what he’ll think anymore. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my brother and I love him, but you guys aren’t together, and you don’t need to live your life to make him happy anymore,” Ginny poured the mixture into a baking dish while she talked.

“I know that, but that doesn’t mean I want to hurt him. I mean, this vile article has implied that I cheated on Ron with Viktor, and you know how sensitive he’s always been about my friendship with Viktor.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘jealous’ or ‘intimidated,’” Ginny argued.

“Yes, well, he’s the father of my children, he’s been my best friend for ages. I don’t want to hurt him, no matter whether we’re married or not anymore.”

“Yes, Hermione, but if you’re ready to move on you shouldn’t censor yourself for his benefit, he has to accept at some point that you have your own life now, a separate life. And he will, he just needs time. He loves you, and he’s embarrassed and hurting, but that can’t be helped.”

“Am I though?”

“Are you what?” Ginny was sliding the baking dish into the oven.

“Ready to move on?”

Ginny stood up and blew out a breath, “a bit late to ask that question now isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“If you’re not ready don’t date anymore. At least you had a good time and relieved some tension. Do you want to see him again?”

“Well, at this moment I never want to see anyone again.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, “well this debacle aside, do you want to see him when it all subsides?”

“I thought so before, so maybe. I just can’t think straight right now.”

“So take a break from it, I’m sure Viktor will understand, he’s always seemed like a reasonable enough bloke to me.”

“Yes, I think you’re right, I’m sure he’d be understanding.”

“Either way, you don’t have to decide everything tonight. All you have to do tonight is eat, drink, and tell me every little detail about Viktor Krum in bed.”

“Ginny!” Hermione laughed.

“What? I’m a married woman Hermione, I haven’t been with anyone but Harry in ages, I need the details to keep me going.”

“Honestly, Ginny, you’re awful,” Hermione was shaking her head in amusement and affection for her friend.

“I’m serious, either you tell me about Krum or I’ll make you listen to how Harry can’t even cast a proper binding charm to tie me up while we’re shagging.”

“Urgh, I could do without imagining Harry have sex, thank you very much,” Hermione responded.

“Me too, so tell me about Krum,” Ginny deadpanned.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, “fine, but first you have to pour me another glass of wine.”

Ginny grinned and summoned the wine bottle.


	11. Rita Skeeter's Scoop

Monday morning arrived too soon, and Hermione was back at the Ministry cleaving her way through the massive amount of damage control that was necessary in her position. Even worse, before she had finished her first tea of the day she found herself waiting impatiently at her desk for the arrival of someone she never wished to see again in her life.

It was seven minutes past their agreed meeting time, and her guest was keeping her waiting, a power play no doubt, Hermione thought with spite.  Jason rapped softly on the door before poking his head inside, “Minister? Ms. Skeeter has arrived.”

“Thank you Jason, please send her in,” Hermione answered, trying to compose and position herself in what she hoped was an authoritative stance behind her desk.

The door opened wider to admit her, and Rita stepped in importantly, elegant robes in her signature shade of acid green.

“Have a seat, please,” Hermione offered, gesturing to the leather seat across from her own.

“Thank you Minister,” Rita replied sweetly, sweeping forward and pulling out her quick quotes quill, “very gracious of you. I must say I was surprised, and dare I say, _shocked_ at your invitation to meet today.” The quill was already scratching on the pad before Rita had settled into her seat.

Hermione did her best to ignore Rita’s tone and the bloody quill. “Yes, well, we have been acquainted quite a while now Rita, have we not?”

“Much longer than I care to admit, Minister, I don’t like to age myself in such ways.”

“During our acquaintance, I believe we’ve had our share of disagreements about your… journalistic style,” Hermione replied diplomatically, getting straight to the point.

Rita laughed, “Minister you are a gifted politician, how delightful and civilized you make kidnapping and blackmailing me sound. Is that what I am here for? Another round of blackmail?  Because I am a registered Animagi now, as you very well know since it was you who ensured that I become so.”

Hermione composed her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression, “I’ve invited you here simply to talk about your recent article.”

“Yes, did you like it? My readers certainly did,” her smile was gloating.

“I can’t say that I enjoyed it no. In fact I found it quite deplorable.”

“How delightful,” she responded, her quill scratching faster.

“Invasion of my privacy and personal insults aside, I’m more concerned about the accusations levied against my professionalism and career.”

“Well, you have to imagine Minister that dating so soon after your divorce, and with someone from outside of the country, it just seems.. well, it brings your morality in question, let’s say.”

“Let’s not say. My professional integrity is not up for debate based on my relationship status. For reasons that are not your business or anyone else’s, I am divorced, and there’s no mandatory sentence after divorce to continue acting as if I am still married. Legally, I am unattached, and I will date whomever I damn well please. In this country or outside it. If you, or anyone else, wants to accuse me of derelict of duty on any terms, you had better bring some evidence, because I promise you I will bring mine. And I will bury you in every report that says that this country has been safer, more progressive, inclusive, and economically viable since my policies have gone into place. You want to publish something, you can publish that.”

Rita’s expression was one of impolite disinterest. “Yes, well, while I’m sure that is all lovely, I’m afraid my readers don’t have much interest in policies and unemployment rates. My readers like personal interest stories, you see. Don’t forget Minister that you were elected as much for your persona and reputation as for your policy plans. Maybe even more.  A war hero!  Order of Merlin, First Class!  Best friend of Harry Potter!  Champion of house-elves and other insignificant creatures!  Little Miss Perfect.  Come now Minister, you know as well as I do that at the end of the day voters don’t care for hard numbers and data- or ‘evidence’ as you’ve termed it- they care about whether or not they like you as a person, it is as simple as that. And really, likeability is subjective, people generally like people they wish they could be like or conversely people that remind them of themselves, someone they have something in common with. So even this, shall we say ‘negative’ turn of events can be favorable for you. ‘Little Miss Perfect’ is not so perfect after all. People love to see the cracks in humanity! They love to watch a train wreck, they want to see their own despair and flaws seem better in comparison to someone else’s. At the very least, you can take pride in raising the morale and ego of your constituents,” Rita finished, a condescending and self-satisfied expression on her leathery face. Hermione wanted to punch her in it. Or capture her in another jar and not let her out until she was out of office, or ever.

“I am sure you are right Rita, the fact that you are still employable in spite of the rubbish that you publish means that people do love to wallow in loathing and judgment,” she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone.

“Well thank you,” Rita smirked.

“It wasn’t a compliment, as you very well know.”

“Of course not, but if you imagine your words hurt or offend me in any way you are still as naïve as you were when I knew you as a silly little girl. I am not intimidated by your meager words or your inflated job title.  I have faced fiercer critics than you before, and I will be exposing the famous and powerful long after you leave this office.”

“If you are determined to denigrate my image, then why did you agree to meet?” Hermione was fuming.

“What makes you assume that is not the precise reason? An angry Minister trying to suppress the press? That’s the scoop of the year. Well, other than your other transgressions.”

“Get out of my office.” Hermione tried to keep her voice steady.

“And throwing me out even! A perfect ending.” Rita smiled broadly, her unnaturally white teeth in a sinister grin. She tucked her notes and quill away in her handbag, snapping it shut with satisfaction. “Good day, Minister.” She swept from the office, her bile green robes swishing behind her.

***

 

_Minister for Magic Cries Fowl Over Duck-Dinner Exposé_

_In an unexpected twist to the most recent Ministry drama, this reporter, Rita Skeeter, was invited for a private, one might even say secret, meeting with the Minister. In a blatant attempt to suppress the press and hinder further release of the Minister’s wrongdoings and conflicts of interest, the Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger, insulted the veteran reporter and her faithful readers._

_In a tirade riddled with profanity (that will not be reproduced here in the interest of upholding standards of journalism decency), the Minister said that her morality and dealings outside of the country are not the business of the press or her constituents. The Minister has promised to “bury in reports” concerned citizens who wish to make inquiries into her judgement as a leader. When the reporter tried to reason with the Minister that transparency in her dealings was in the interest of all citizens in our nation, the reporter was unceremoniously thrown out by the Minister herself._

_No doubt this information will be shocking to those who viewed Minister Granger as a picture of benevolence and goodness. These bizarre defensive actions beg the question “what is the Minister trying so hard to hide?” Certainly a dalliance with an old boyfriend would not justify such a sharp reaction from the Minister for Magic?_

_This reporter, for one, will not stand down, but will continue to seek out the truth and aspire to keep the public informed._


	12. Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw

_Mum,_

_I know you said be careful about believing everything I read, especially if it’s political, so I want you to know that I didn’t read the newspapers. But kids at school are saying that you cheated on Dad with that Quidditch guy and threatened that reporter lady. Obviously, I know it’s not true, which is what I told Lunn McLaggen. Then he said you shouldn’t be Minister anymore. And I know you said I should only use the hexes Aunt Ginny taught me if someone makes me feel unsafe, but I just lost my temper. I know it was wrong, and Professor Flitwick has already given me detention. Though he only took 5 house points since there was no lasting harm done and because he said it was the best horn tongue hex he’s seen in ages. Hugo is a little more cut up about it (the rumours, not the hex) and he won’t talk to me about it when I go to the Gryffindor table at mealtimes. I figured I would let you know, in case you wanted to write to him or something. I’ve got to go, Robbie Boot is trying to brew a hair growth potion to get a beard and will probably blow up the tower if someone doesn’t intervene soon._

_Hugs,_  
_Rose_

 

It had been almost three weeks since her meeting with Rita and Hermione was sitting in her office at the Ministry, reading over Rose’s letter for what must be the tenth time since she had received it a week earlier. She was particularly fretting over the lack of response she had received from Hugo in her follow-up letter to him.

It was two o’clock on a snowy Friday, and there was nothing else for it, she would have to pop over to Hogwarts and just have a chat with him in person. It was unlike her to be so dramatic about not getting a return letter, but she had a feeling that this was different and she had to do something.  She feared this silence was not something that was going to get better with time and distance, if anything it would only get worse.

She made up her mind, let Jason know she would be out of the office for a bit, and threw a pinch of floo powder into the fire in her grate, one of the few connected directly to Hogwarts.

Hermione stepped into the green flames and out of the fireplace in the Headmistress’s office.

“Minister!” McGonagall looked up from the parchment at her desk and addressed Hermione with surprise at her appearance, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, I was hoping I could abuse my power just a bit and have a word with my children,” Hermione was surreptitiously dusting ashes off her robes as she spoke.

“Of course Minister, as you know, no abuse of power is necessary, as a concerned parent you are welcome to visit anytime.”

“Please, Headmistress, call me Hermione.”

The corners of McGonagall’s eyes crinkled in what may have been a smile, “I will call you ‘Hermione’ when you call me ‘Minerva’.”

Hermione chuckled, “fair enough, how about ‘Professor’ and ‘Ms. Granger’?”

McGonagall chortled, “very well Ms. Granger. Would you like to see both your children at the same time?”

“Separately, please,” Hermione answered, warmed by her affection for this woman.

“Rose first? No doubt you wish to see her about this recent hexing incident?” McGonagall questioned, knowingly.

“Indeed,” Hermione answered.

McGonagall cast a cat patronus that streaked through the office wall and undoubtedly into the direction of Rose’s current classroom.

“May I offer you some tea, Ms. Granger? Biscuits?” She pulled a tin from out of her desk.

“That’s very kind of you, but I just ate, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” McGonagall said, helping herself to a shortbread. “I heard from Filius, who witnessed Miss Granger-Weasley’s hex, that it was fine spellwork, he almost sounded proud. It seems she is gifted like her mother in that way. Though I wish she found more productive ways to channel her talents.”

“I can’t take credit for all of that, though I must agree that she needs to find better ways to channel her frustrations.”

“Well, she did serve her detention, as she no doubt informed you?”

“She did,” Hermione confirmed.

“Yes, I believe she had to scrub cauldrons in the potions lab.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Quite,” McGonagall said, chewing pleasantly on a shortbread biscuit.

There was a knock at the door and McGonagall instructed the knocker to enter.

Rose, heaving and cheeks red as if she had been running, was standing in the doorway looking a little horrorstruck at the sight of her mother and the Headmistress in the same room. Hermione was struck by how very like Ron she looked, and how she was somehow taller than Hermione had remembered her being when she saw her last just a few short months ago.

“Mum, it was just a hex, I swear, you didn’t have to come all the way up here!” Rose cried from the doorway.

“Come in Miss Granger-Weasley, have a seat,” McGonagall commanded.

Rose walked trepidatiously and took the seat beside her mother, “Headmistress, I did serve my detention, and even apologized to Lunn McLaggen, I promise I won’t do it again,” Rose looked desperately at McGonagall.

“Yes, well it is not on my account you have been called here today Miss Granger-Weasley. I understand that you have served your punishment and that Madam Pomfrey was able to sort Mr. McLaggen out immediately. You’ve been called to my office at your mother’s request.” McGonagall turned toward Hermione, “I’ll allow you some privacy and collect Mr. Granger-Weasley myself.”

“Thank you very much,” Hermione answered and she watched as McGonagall left, pulling the office door shut behind her.

Rose rounded on her as the door clicked shut, “honestly Mum, I swear I won’t hex anyone else, I didn’t mean for you to come all the way up here!”

“Rose, darling, I have served my fair share of detentions for losing my patience with dim-witted boys who said foolish things. I’m not here to chide you, I’m here to check on you.”

“Oh,” Rose looked taken aback, “about the papers?”

“Well, yes, that, and about you know, things between your father and I.”

“You mean the divorce?” She rolled her eyes, “Mum, really I’m fine, I’m only home at holidays now and even then you and Dad were either arguing or ignoring each other, so it’s kind of a relief actually.” Rose seemed sincere, and it made Hermione’s heart ache with sadness.

“Well, I’m sorry it was that terrible,” Hermione said.

“It wasn’t terrible, really, but I’m glad that you guys will be happier now.”

Hermione looked at her daughter, her beautiful, flame-haired daughter with Ron’s nose and freckles and her own brown eyes, her own teeth. How did she become so wise, so grown-up so quickly? “Yes, I think so,” Hermione responded.

“Mum?” Rose asked, almost shyly.

“Hmm?”

“Are you?”

“What? Happier?”

“Well that yes,” Rose looked uncomfortable, “but also, are you dating that Quidditch guy?”

Hermione swallowed hard. What could she say? She couldn’t lie to her daughter. “Yes, I believe I’m happier now. And I wouldn’t use the word ‘dating’ really, but I am friends with Mr. Krum, and have been for a long time, we are just seeing more of each other now.”

“But are you, like ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ friends, like snogging and stuff?” Rose was turning red, like her father did when he was embarrassed.

Hermione smiled, there was no way to give a politician’s answer to her daughter’s direct question. “Yes, I suppose so, though we haven’t used those type of terms for our friendship.”

“Oh,” Rose responded, cheeks still red, “does Dad know?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, thinking of Ron’s outburst in the kitchen, glad that her children at least did not have to witness that exchange.

“Well, as long as everyone is happier,” Rose said determinedly.

“What about Hugo?” Hermione asked, hoping to steer the conversation further away from the uncomfortable truth.

“He still won’t say much to me about it,” said Rose, “but I can tell he’s not himself. When I hexed McLaggen he didn’t even egg me on or compliment me, which is so unlike him when I’m hexing someone that’s not him.” Rose seemed sincerely worried.

Hermione almost smiled, “well, I’ll talk with him, see if I can get it sorted.”

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“I love you and everything, and it’s nice to see you now that I know I’m not in trouble, but can I go back to class now? It’s double Potions with Hufflepuff and I don’t want to miss anything important.”

Hermione smiled at her daughter’s diligence. “Of course, I love you too. Tell Professor Slughorn I say hello.”

“Do I have to? He’ll drone on for hours about how wonderful you are and how bright you were when you were his student and embarrass me in front of the whole class.” Rose looked mortified.

Hermione laughed, “I suppose not, though it’s nice to know he hasn’t changed in his old age.  Go on then, I’ll see you at the holidays.” Rose nodded and kissed her mother’s cheek before dashing out of the office and down the stone steps.

Hermione sighed heavily and surveyed the familiar office while she waited for the real reason she was here- to talk to Hugo.

The previous headmasters and headmistresses were all snoozing or feigning sleep in their frames, with the exception of Severus Snape. “Back in the Headmistress’s office again, Ms. Granger? Why am I not surprised?” He drawled lazily. “I imagine it has something to do with Potter and Weasley, you three never had much sense or regard for the rules. Your children have all proved as incapable of it as you three were during your time here,” he sneered with delight.

“Oh shove it,” Hermione said with some satisfaction, almost wishing that Harry had never insisted his portrait be hung behind the desk.

“And no sense of decorum either, though I wouldn’t expect anything more from such an unoriginal mind.”

“Now, now Severus,” Dumbledore’s portrait interjected, no longer feigning sleep, “if we talk of decorum we must be mindful of how we speak to our guests. We mustn't forget we are entertaining the Minister for Magic,” Dumbledore said with something like pride, and Hermione smiled back at the portrait.

“Yes, so I’ve been told,” the portrait of Snape said, eying her with disdain.

Hermione looked determinedly away and was about to engage the portrait of Dumbledore in conversation when the office door opened and Hugo stepped in, looking more confused than even Rose had done.

“Professor McGonagall told me I had to come up to her office, am I in trouble?”

Hermione felt relief at the sight of her son, looking healthy and much the same as he had done when she saw him off on the Hogwarts Express. “No love, you’re not in trouble, I just wanted to stop by for a chat. Won’t you sit and talk for a bit?”

Hugo eyed her distrustfully, “I’d rather not,” he said, not moving.

Hermione felt hurt, “just a few minutes, then I’ll pop off.”

“I know why you’re here, and I don’t want to talk about what the papers are saying, or you and Dad splitting up, or my stupid feelings or anything else!  Just leave me alone!”

Hugo turned around and ran back down the stairs and Hermione called after him, even getting up to follow him down the stairs herself, but by the time she was at the bottom of them he was nowhere to be seen in the hallway. She walked slowly back up the stairs, thinking furiously as she re-entered the Headmistress’s study, wondering if she should wait a bit, if he might come back, or if she should just floo back to her office now.

“Well that was successful,” Snape’s portrait sneered.

Hermione pointedly ignored him.

“Ah to be young and full of angst! What a privilege it is to teach them!” Dumbledore’s portrait declared good-naturedly.

“And to parent them,” Hermione agreed sardonically.


	13. Fight and Flight

Hermione was finishing her breakfast and pensively watching snow dance past her window the next Saturday morning when there was a rough knock at her door. Hermione had come to recognize that knock as belonging to the young, cocky Auror that was still stationed outside her house. Sure enough, when she pulled the door open there he stood, wand trained on Ron, who to his credit also had his wand aimed directly at the Auror. They were clearly in the midst of a confrontation.

“-don’t care who you are, you pull your wand on me I’m going to pull mine,” Ron was saying.

“I was stationed here to protect the Minister by the head of MLE, Harry Potter, himself-” the Auror was saying importantly, before Ron cut him off.

“Oh Harry Potter, you mean my best mate of 30 years? Yeah I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you’re firing spells off at his brother-in-law.”

Comprehension dawned on the young Auror’s face and he blanched, “I’m sorry Mr. Weasley, I didn’t realise. Minister, I’m sorry I didn’t realise-”

Hermione had seen enough, “it’s fine,” she dismissed him and invited the irate Ron inside so that the spectacle wouldn’t continue.

“Worthless bloke that one, I’m going to be giving Harry an earful for assigning that rookie here.” Ron was irritably brushing powdery snowflakes out of his fiery hair.

“He’s fine. Why are you here Ron? Come to attack me about more Rita Skeeter articles? Because I’m thoroughly not in the mood this morning.”

“No, I’d imagine not, seems like you’ve had enough of that.”

“So what are you here for, because I’m sure it’s not to inquire after my health.”

“Hugo.”

She heaved a deep sigh, “what about him?”

“He wrote me this week and said he’s staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. Did he write you?”

“What? No! Did he say why?”

“He didn’t say much really, just that he wasn’t feeling like coming home.”

Hermione wilted inside. “That’s it? But it’s his first year, isn’t he homesick?”

“For what home Hermione? His broken one? He’s reading rubbish about his mum in the newspapers every other day, and dad lives in a shabby two-bedroom over a muggle vacuum shop, what’s he want to come home for?”

She felt shattered at his words, “I mean I knew he was upset when he wouldn’t answer my letters or talk to me at Hogwarts, but I didn’t think he’d keep it up through Christmas.”

“What do you mean, ‘talk to you at Hogwarts’?”

“What?”

“Did you visit him?” His tone was accusatory and she realised she hadn’t told him.

“I… stopped in at the school.”

“When?” He was clearly angry but she couldn’t understand why.

“Last week, why does it matter?”

“‘Why does it matter?’ Don’t you think I might want to know? I am his father! Bloody hell Hermione, you can’t just go traipsing up to Hogwarts every time you arse up to try to make it better! He’s a first year Hermione, he’s just trying to figure it out and fit in, he doesn’t want his mum, the bloody Minister for Magic, showing up at school when there’s already enough attention on him for your choices.”

“' _My choices_?' And I’m sorry, I didn’t know I needed your permission to visit my son.”

“What else do you want me to call them, your mistakes? And of course you don’t need my permission but it would be nice to know if you're up there trying to get him on your side!”

“‘On my side’? Since when were we fighting a battle against each other Ronald and using our children as pawns?”

“I’m just thinking in their best interest, they don’t need more interference in their lives and mind-healer rubbish. They don’t need their mummy popping into school all the time just because she can.”

“I’m sorry for caring and worrying about our children’s well-being.”

“What’s there to worry about?”

“Oh that’s right Ron, you don’t have to worry about anything, you always get to be the fun parent! ‘My dad runs a joke shop and my mum does something boring in an office.’ ‘I love Dad’s new flat, it’s right near the ice cream parlour.’”

“Oh give it a rest Hermione, that career day bit from muggle primary school was ages ago. And if you wanted the ‘cool’ flat you were bloody well welcome to move out yourself and let me keep the house.”

“My point is that you never need to take responsibility for the hard things, the serious things, because you just let me do all that. You get to be the good cop and I have to be the bad cop.”

“The what?”

“They’re like Aurors, but for muggles, it’s an idiom. The point is that I have to always take care of everything, all the things that never cross your mind, the new robes shopping when Rose has outgrown hers in the middle of the school year. Or Hugo’s extra maths lessons. Or enforcing the punishments when they’re caught duelling with their cousins.”

“Those things are different. You’re the one who knows they need to be done, if you want me to do them then just tell me! I don’t even get a chance to do them because by the time I find out it’s already done. How are you going to get angry at me for not doing something that I don’t even know needs to be done?”

“ _I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO TELL YOU!_ They’re your children too! Who do you think tells me? I know because I take the time to know!”

“You’re such a martyr Hermione, you have to be the leader of the family, but then you complain about it, and when I try to take over my way is never good enough.”

She scoffed, “Ronald when have you ever tried to take charge of anything? Of our family? Our children? Our marriage? Our marriage didn’t need someone else to destroy it, it died from neglect. You forgot what it meant for me to be your wife and treated me as a roommate with the expectation of repetitive, passionless sex whenever you could stay awake long enough to engage in it. Godric, we’d been sleeping in separate rooms for years before our divorce Ron! I’d never felt so abandoned and alone in my life, and that includes when you left me and Harry on the hunt for Horcruxes.”

“You want to drag something up from over twenty years ago? That’s what you want to fight about? And we both agreed the separate rooms were best because of your work schedule!”

“In everything that I just said to you that’s all you heard? Really? That right there is why we’re divorced Ron. I could've told you exactly what I needed for years, even the things a wife should never have to ask for, and you wouldn’t have given them to me. I’m being selfish? Maybe. But if I am my only regret is not being selfish sooner.” She was heaving with rage. “And I’m changing the spells on the doors. Don’t pop up here again without permission first, or I’ll instruct the Aurors to arrest first and ask questions after.”

“Is that how it’s gonna be then?” He was looking at her with betrayal in his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s how it’s going to be,” she was righteous and resolute in her anger.

“Bloody hell Hermione, I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he said, giving her a scathing look and pulling the door open, then shut hard behind him.

She collapsed in the chair by the door, exhausted by the interaction, by her ire and her pain. She couldn’t stay cooped up in this house like a prisoner anymore.  Her scoured her mind for an escape.  She couldn’t stand going into the office for another Saturday, she didn’t want to impose on Harry and Ginny yet again, and the thought of wandering aimlessly in shops and waiting to be photographed or confronted turned her stomach.

She knew instantly the only place she could stand to be at that moment, and she decided to leave right then, before she could change her mind. She put on her shoes and cloak, and Disapparated right from her sitting room.


	14. A Place to Hide

Before she knew what she was doing she was standing on Viktor’s doorstep. She hadn’t flooed or owled or anything, and yet here she was, getting ready to knock on his door and ask to stay, him completely unaware. They had barely spoken in the last few weeks since the infamous perfect night. What if he said no? What if he didn’t want her there? What if, and she cringed at the thought, he had another woman inside? She raised her hand and forced herself to knock before she could change her mind and Disapparate back to home.

Three solid knocks on the crimson door, and she heard quick but heavy footsteps on the the other side. Her heart was pounding as he pulled open the door.

“Hermy-own-ninny! You are here!” His tone was surprised, but she couldn’t tell if it was a negative surprise. He was in nothing but joggers, his beautifully chiseled chest bare, long hair down and tousled. She worried for a horrifying moment that she had been right, and he had another woman inside.

“I’m so sorry to drop in, is this a bad time? It was presumptuous of me, I’ll just leave,” she started to turn away.

“No! Not a bad time, please come in!” He stepped back and gestured for her to enter. She took a step tentatively over the threshold, allowing him to shut the door behind her as she took in his home. The hall smelled of coffee and bacon, there were stairs directly in front of her, and the doorway to her left opened up to a sitting room. Small, tidy, and minimalist in nature, the sitting room contained just a single couch with some pillows, built-in bookshelves filled with books, trophies, and awards, and a mantle adorned with picture frames.

“May I take your cloak?” He asked, and she gratefully obliged, removing it and handing it to him to hang on the coat rack by the door.

“I’m so sorry to barge in on you, I should have flooed first, or something,” she felt awkward, stupid for coming here on a whim.

“Hermy-own-ninny, do not apologise, you are alvays velcome, I am happy you are here.” He had placed his hands on her shoulders as if to pull her to him, when he seemed to see something in her face and his tone turned to concern, “you are upset, vot is the matter?”

“I just, well I needed a place to hide, and I thought of you and your offer to stay…”

“‘To hide’? Is someone chasing you?” He looked more concerned.

“No, I don’t mean in that sense, I guess I mean, to hide from… the world really,” it sounded stupid coming out of her mouth.

He seemed to understand though, “I am glad you thought of me, you may ‘hide’ here as long as you like.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mean to impose.”

“Of course! I am just finishing breakfast, I can make some for you, if you vould like, and you can tell me about vot you are hiding from?” He was leading her into the kitchen and she followed him feeling calmer with every step.

“I just ate actually, but that coffee smells amazing.” The kitchen was brightly lit with morning light, the table and countertops worn but clean, a cast iron pan still shining with liquid bacon grease was on the stove, and a half finished plate of eggs and bacon sat on the table in front of a chair that was pulled out. She had literally interrupted his breakfast.

“Vonderful, how do you take your coffee?” He asked, heading to the carafe on the countertop and using his wand to summon a mug from the open shelving.

“Cream, no sugar, please” she answered.

He fixed her coffee, adding a perfect shot of cream and stirred it with a spoon. “Have a seat, please,” he gestured to the chair at the table across from his, using his wand to pull it out for her, and she sat. He brought her the steaming mug and she accepted it with gratitude. “Now tell me,” he said re-taking his seat and lifting his fork, “vot has the voman that fought Voldemort hiding?”

She chuckled a bit at this, “it is stupid really, I suppose. Everything is just out of control at the Ministry, reporters owling and flooing all day, and I’ve just got in a fight with my ex-husband, about our son really. Ron thinks that it’s my fault that Hugo doesn’t want to come home for Christmas. And I’m not entirely sure I disagree.”

“Your son is not taking the divorce vell?” Viktor asked.

“I thought he was doing okay with the divorce, I think it’s this latest nastiness in the paper that he’s hung up on. Our daughter Rose seems to be handling it all alright, thankfully. Well, she did hex a kid, but it wasn’t malicious. I mean, we started preparing the kids over the summer, the last thing we wanted was for them to learn about it while they were away at school, especially with this being Hugo’s first year and all. We tried to focus on the good and frame it as a transition for us as a family, in the same way that them starting at Hogwarts is a transition. ‘We’re all in different places physically, but we all still love each other,’ that sort of thing. I’m not sure if they bought it, but there were less tears than I expected. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or just an indication of how bad the fighting between Ron and I had become.” She wasn’t sure why she was saying all this, except that once she had started it felt good to let it out, and she hadn’t wanted to stop. It felt good to tell her side of the story, to explain it all to someone who wasn’t biased or there to watch it as it all fall apart.

“Your ex-husband is moved out now?”

“Ron moved out just before their term began, I kept the house and he found a little flat near Diagon Alley. He seems happier there, it’s close to work and good places to eat.”

“Are you happier?” Viktor asked, taking a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“I wasn’t sure at first. The house was too quiet, almost eerily quiet after the kids left for school. To be honest I almost felt like I had made a mistake. But then I realised that living with Ron the past few years had been like living alone, or having another child really when I had to nag him to pick up his socks or argue about whose turn it was to make dinner. We were really just roommates at that point, and not very good ones at that.” She took a steadying gulp of her coffee, it was the perfect temperature, and a rich, dark roast.

“But, you are happier now?”

“Yes, definitely. I mean I’m not happy about the fight we just had, but at least I can get away from it now.”

“That is important,” Viktor agreed, sipping his own coffee, “ven Nevena left, it vos sad, but peaceful.”

“Yes, it is that. But it is also just so hard, in so many ways that I never anticipated. I feel like I’ve lost more than a husband. His family too, in some ways. I mean of course his family is my family now and always will be because of the kids, but it’s not the same. I feel like a pariah, like I should exclude myself from family events like Christmas, so that he doesn’t feel awkward. And all of our friends. We’ve had the same group of friends for ages, we used to do weekly brunch at each other’s houses, but it’s just so uncomfortable now when Ron isn’t there and worse when he is. Everyone trying not to talk about the divorce like if they ignore it it didn’t happen. I guess that’s one of the reasons I needed to come here. You’re the only one that’s just mine,” she said the words without thinking, but when they escaped her mouth she felt embarrassed by them, “I don’t mean ‘mine’ like you belong to me or anything,” she tried to explain, but he cut her off with a steady hand overtop hers.

“I vill be yours, if you vant me to,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. She squeezed back, grateful for his calmness, his steadiness.

“I’m sorry, I’m just ranting. I don’t think I’ve talked this much about everything in ages.”

“Do not be sorry, I like to listen,” he had finished the last of his food and patted her hand before he rose, “keep talking to me, I am listening.” He carried his plate to the sink and started washing his breakfast dishes.

She ranted a little more while he scrubbed, draining her coffee too quickly. She brought the mug to him, only then noticing that he was washing the dishes by hand.

“You don’t use magic to wash the dishes?” She asked, leaning against the counter and looking over at him in amusement.

“I vos never very good at cleaning charms. I do not mind this chore though,” he said, taking the mug from her and sinking it into the soapy water.

“Viktor you are such an interesting wizard,” she said, her tone full of affection for him.

“You are teasing me, I think,” he said playfully.

“Not teasing, just entertained,” she smirked.

“Do you know vot is entertaining?” He asked, and before she could move out of the way he had lifted a handful of bubbles and smeared it across her cheek.

She shrieked in surprise and delight as he laughed heartily at her. In response she leaned in to the sink and splashed water and bubbles on to his bare chest. He splashed back and a battle broke out until they were both covered in water and dissipating bubbles and gasping for breath from laughter.

“Truce,” he called, and pulled her toward him, holding her neck with warm, wet hands as he kissed her.

The kiss quickly turned passionate and she found herself pressed between him and the countertop. He kissed her neck and caressed her breast and she spread her thighs a little to allow him to push in closer.

“I should really get out of these wet clothes,” she suggested, and he immediately lifted her jumper up over her head. They both laughed a little as he struggled to get it over her face, but when it was finally crumpled on the floor next to them he wasted no time in pulling her trousers and panties down. She too was yanking his joggers down, eager to free his already erect penis. He lifted her up and onto the counter, the height difference put her at a perfect position.

She could feel his cock hard against her thigh, and he slid a finger along her opening, “you are so vet,” he said with approval, removing his hand and rubbing his slicked fingers over the length of his erection. She thought for a moment that he might enter her right then, but instead he lowered his mouth to taste her, keeping a steady rhythm on his cock as he did.

Soon she was squirming with lust and impatience, she didn't want to come until he was inside her. “Fuck me,” she panted. He didn’t wait for her to beg this time before he complied, stopping only long enough to grab his wand off the counter and cast another protective spell over himself before pushing inside her easily. They both let out sounds of relief as he filled her. They fell quickly into a hard and fast rhythm, the sounds of their moans and slapping skin filling the kitchen. He was leaning back just enough to rub a thumb over her clit and push her closer to the edge.

“Come for me,” he said as he watched her body with hungry eyes. It was all she needed, she gave in instantly, her cries of pleasure sounding almost like pain as they filled the quiet, empty space, and he joined in just as she finished, pulling out of her just before generous spurts of warm cum shot out onto her abdomen and thigh. She gazed appreciatively at the mess he had made on her from her post orgasm haze.

He reached for his wand, “I vill clean it.”

“Don’t, not just yet,” she said, making intense eye contact with him that ended in a kiss.

“Come shower vith me,” he said, lifting her down, not worrying about avoiding his mess on her.

“Okay,” she said, and he led her to the shower.

***

After a long, hot shower where he had insisted on washing every part of her, he had given her a tee shirt and a pair of his joggers to wear, both of which were comically large on her but incredibly comfortable. She couldn’t stop surreptitiously smelling the shirt, it smelled deliciously like him. She browsed his bookshelves while he put a washing spell on their clothes (one he claimed he was better at than dishes) and was delighted to see titles she knew, magical and muggle, as well as many that she didn’t. She was most intrigued by the ones in varying foreign languages.

When he entered the sitting room she was holding one that was clearly in a slavic language, and he smiled at the sight. “How did I know I vould find you here?”

“Because you stalked me in the library for months when we were at school,” she teased.

“I vould not say stalked…” he said, still good-naturedly.

“What is your favorite book?” She asked placing the one she had been holding back in it’s spot.

He spoke the title in another language, then said, “it is on the shelf there, I vould say you should read it, but it is all in Bulgarian.”

“You could read it to me,” she said hopefully, “and translate?”

“I vould, I am not so good at that kind of translation.”

“I like to hear you speak it though. I think it’s fascinating the way languages work in different ways in our brain. There are other languages here, how many do you speak?”

“Fluently? Bulgarian, English, Russian, some Turkish. I buy the books to get more practice in reading and writing. Vot about you, do you speak other languages?” He was moving from the doorway to settle onto the couch.

“I’m fluent in French, mostly because of summers spent with my family there as a child. I know a bit of Spanish too, enough to get by on holiday. I studied Gobbledegook when I was working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but I think I've forgotten most of that now. I read Ancient Runes too, a few years back I actually published a translation of traditional tales.”

“I know, Beedle the Bard!”

“How do you know?” She was surprised.

“You don’t remember? You told me about it in one of your letters, maybe just mentioned it. So I bought and read it. It should be on the shelf there somevhere.”

“Must’ve been years ago, I can’t believe you remember it!” She was shocked and pleased.

“Eh,” he said dismissively, “I have a good memory for things like this.”

“For children’s morality tales?” She asked sceptically, scanning the books further until finally she saw the small black volume with gilt lettering between two larger books, and pulled it free.

“For things that are important to people that I care about. You should sign it for me,” he inclined his head to the quill and inkpot on a nearby shelf.

“Only if you promise not to read it until I’m gone,” she said.

“Okay,” he said, smiling easily.

Shaking her head slightly, she opened the too-familiar book and put the quill to the parchment on the title page. She hesitated for a moment, unsure what to write. Then she looked at him, at ease on the sofa, and felt almost sickly infatuated with him. Not just his physical attraction, strength, and sexual prowess; but his honesty, his sensitivity, his comfort with talking about his feelings, his boldness and initiative in pursuing her. She had never been romanced like this before, certainly not by Ron, and not even by Viktor himself when she met him in fourth year. Back then they were both so young and awkward, but even then Viktor had been so secure in his integrity, honesty, and quiet strength. She admired him, she was fascinated by him, and though she was in the same room as him, she somehow missed him already in anticipation of leaving him. It was unsettling, the whole of it, and she felt adrift, unsure, and almost adolescent again.

The ink was starting to blot from her hesitation so she wrote, trying not to overthink it.

 

_Viktor,_

_Thank you for always being there._

_All my love,_  
_Hermione_

 

She blew on the page hoping the ink would dry quickly, and when it looked mostly dry, she closed the cover and replaced it back in its spot, and did the same with the quill. She drifted away from the bookshelves towards the mantle, surveying the picture frames it held.

“Is this your family?” She asked, looking at an aging picture of two adults laughing and trying to control three small, fidgety children.

“That is my parents, me, and two of my siblings.”

“Two of your siblings? How many do you have?”

“Four.”

“Which one of these is you?”

“The fat little one.” She looked at the image closer, the smallest child had his arms wrapped tenderly around his mother’s neck and kept peering cautiously over at the camera. He _was_ quite fat, in that squishy baby way.

“You have never liked cameras I see.”

He chuckled, “not really, no.”

She moved on to view several other images of people who could only be Viktor’s relatives throughout the years.  For some of the faces, like Viktor's, the progression was clear.  Viktor in Durmstrang robes surrounded by what must be his siblings, two sisters and two brothers, Viktor directly in the middle.  Another of a smiling teenaged Viktor with what appeared to be a broken, bleeding nose holding a struggling snitch.  Next to it, young Viktor standing with his beaming parents in new Bulgarian National Quidditch robes.  “Are you close with your family?” She asked.

“I am. Your family is your legacy,” he said wistfully watching her examine his pictures, “you should meet them sometime.”

She laughed, “of course, why not right now?”

“Vhy not, you are perfect, my parents vould love you,” Viktor said. She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was joking.

“No one is perfect,” Hermione responded firmly.

“You are, to me.” He sounded so certain that it irritated her.

“I don’t want to be perfect, to you, or to anyone else. I can't carry that around with me anymore.”

“Okay, you do not have to meet my parents, and you are not perfect,” he answered playfully.

“No Viktor, I mean it. I can’t handle that type of pressure. Not in my career and certainly not in my personal life. When I was in school it was the same way. It was like I always had something to prove. I had to do everything right, and live up to impossible standards that I set for myself or that I believed others set for me. And I can’t do it anymore, I can’t have expectations hanging over my head, some kind of ideal to fulfill. And if you can’t see me beyond the outcome of that toxic perfectionism then I came to the wrong place and we probably shouldn’t even see each other anymore,” the volume of her voice had risen without her noticing it, her tone was hot and her body tense.

His expression had changed and he surveyed her with calm, serious eyes. “You misunderstand me. I do not think you are a perfect human being, that is silly. Ven I say you are perfect I mean that you have many of the qualities that I like in a person, and lack many of those I do not like. Ven I first saw you at your school all those years ago, studying in the library, I vas mesmerized not by your beauty, though you had that, but by your vork ethic. I saw myself in that, in the vay that you applied yourself, single-mindedly to a task, to the vay that you committed to excellence, the vay that you did not get distracted from your goals how the other silly girls did that vould follow me around. You vere smart, that much was clear, and I admired your mind, but you vere even more than that. The vay that you carried yourself vith dignity ven that vicious reporter sold lies about us during the tournament made me admire you more. And since then, over many years, I have vatched you do incredible, brave, amazing things.  Everything I know of you confirms all of the things I suspected ven ve vere at school. You have integrity, kindness, intelligence, and beauty. To me, this is perfect. But I expect that if ve spend more time together that I vill find things I do not like about you, and you vill find things you do not like about me. Beyond this, I do not have any expectations, except that you vill be you. And the hope that maybe you vill allow me to hang around for a vhile,” his tone was gentle.

She felt somewhat mollified, her body softened, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have reacted so defensively.”

“It is okay,” he smiled broader, “you are not perfect.”

She couldn’t contain the grin that threatened to spread across her face as he watched her for signs of a smile, and it erupted from her as a giggle. He grinned in satisfaction, reached out a hand for her, and when she took it he pulled her toward him and down onto the couch beside him. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, “you do not need to be perfect for me.” She looked up at him, his eye contact warm and sincere, and she pulled him to her by his collar, kissing him deeply. He kissed her eagerly back as she slid onto his lap, their misunderstanding soon forgotten.

They spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing. After he made them a Bulgarian potato and veal dish for dinner that Hermione had never had before, but liked immensely, they tried teaching each other playing card games. That was until the game of strip Exploding Snap Hermione introduced got out of hand and they ended up in Viktor’s bed.  They didn’t find their way back out that night.

***

They were lying in bed the next morning when the topic was brought back around to Christmas.

“You know you are alvays velcome to stay vith me for Christmas.”

“I would, but I’ve got to make things right with my family.”

He nodded his head in agreement. “That is important.”

“I’m just not sure how I'm going to do it.”

“Talk to them,” he answered, as if it were that simple.

“It’s not that easy,” she responded.

“It is, you just need to choose the right vords.”

“Yes, and what are those words?” She asked, looking up at him, fascinated by his simple and straightforward approach to everything.

“The true vords. The vords from your heart,” he touched his chest as he said it.

“Yes, well I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but the British are famous for not expressing their feelings very well,” she said light-heartedly.

“Then you must practice until you are better.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, practice is alvays good. You can practice vith me.”

“Practice what I’m going to say to my ex-husband?” She was incredulous.

“No, practice saying vot is true, vot you feel.”

“Like what?” She felt suddenly nervous.

“Like… for example. ‘Hermy-own-ninny, I am happy ven I am vith you. I think about you ven I am not vith you, and am wishing I vas.’ See? Easy.”

She thought for a long moment, racking her brains for something true and still safe to say. “Okay… Viktor, when I am with you I enjoy myself so much that time seems to pass faster than normal. It goes by too fast, and the more I try to hold onto it, the quicker it slips away, like trying to hold sand in my hands.”

He was smiling gently, “you are a poet.”

She laughed, “hardly!”

“I like the sound of your feelings, I want to hear more,” he was pulling her onto his chest, kissing her nose.

“What do you want to hear?” She asked kissing his lips.

“Vot you like most about me,” he smiled.

“Now you are just fishing for compliments!” She protested in mock outrage.

He looked at her innocently, patiently waiting for her response.

“Fine. I like… how calm you are. I like that we are so alike, and yet so different. You know when you said that thing about being driven and ambitious. We are both that way, never satisfied until we know we’ve done our best. And yet… I have always been driven by a fear of failure, and it’s made me neurotic and tense and sometimes overbearing. You are the opposite. Your drive makes you calm, and focused. You are steady, you give your all, but if you fail you don’t get hung up on it, you just apply yourself harder and try again. Your outlook is certainly more positive than mine. I guess you balance me out a bit in that way. And I like that.”

He kissed her again in response, sweetly. “That is not so hard, see?”

She laughed, “you think I should tell my ex-husband what I like most about him?”

“Maybe, if it helps. But maybe not the kissing after, but that is up to you,” he was smiling, his tone light.

She was starting to understand his humour better, and she thought it was something she could add to her list of things she liked about him. “Should I also tell that awful reporter what I like about her?” She teased.

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Vhy not? Call a truce?”

“You’re being serious?”

“She must have some good quality. She vould make a better ally than enemy.”

"I would have to be mad to trust her."

"I did not say to trust her, just to make peace vith her."

Hermione turned this statement over in her mind, entertaining the idea. “What would I say?”

“I don’t know. Use her own vords. Tell her that you understand the importance of her vork, her role in informing the public. Tell her you are impressed vith her commitment to her vork. Maybe offer her incentive.”

“Like what?” As she asked the question, remembering her teenage dealings with Rita, the answer sprang to her mind. “Like exclusive first reporting on Ministry events- provided we’re working together.” She was impressed and yet irritated she hadn’t seen it sooner. “Viktor you’re a genius!”

“See? You are better at the feelings already.”

She pushed him playfully and he pulled her closer to him.

“Oh, I don’t want to leave,” she sighed.

“Then do not,” he brushed a piece of hair back behind her ear.

“I must,” she responded, looking up into his eyes.

“I know. Vill I see you soon?”

She loved this about him. His quiet acceptance, his understanding, his lack of pressure. “I hope so.”

“Me too,” he said, kissing her lips.

When shortly thereafter they found themselves naked again and wrapped up in each other for the last time that weekend, there was a new tenderness there. They made a gentler, softer sort of love that almost scared Hermione with how intimate it felt.


	15. A Very Frosty Christmas

The last two and a half weeks before Christmas passed in a daze of holiday preparations at home and at work. Hermione had to do all of her Christmas decorating, shopping, and baking alone this year; it was quite a lonely thing. At work she still had to handle all the usual mess while preparing for most offices (but of course not hers) to be closed for an extended holiday. By the time Christmas rolled around she still hadn’t spoken to, let alone made up with, Ronald or Hugo. So it was with her arms full of packages and her mind full of hope for a Christmas miracle that she Apparated to the Burrow on Christmas day.

When Hermione arrived at the Burrow the place was fit to bursting with Weasleys, even with all the school-aged children deciding to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas that year. She was met warmly at the door by Charlie who helped her carry her packages and launched into a fifteen minute long tangent on dragon regulation that Hermione couldn’t wait to get away from. Charlie was great, but the last thing she wanted to think of was work.

She thought she caught a glimpse of Ronald while Charlie was banging on about dragon egg poaching, but just as quickly she lost sight of him. After Charlie excused himself to get more mead, she worked her way toward the food in the hope of finding Ron.

Instead she found Harry, which was probably the next best thing.

“Alright Harry,” she said just as he shoved a treacle tart into his mouth.

“Hmph,” he muttered, pointing to his full mouth.

“Ginny about?” She asked, hoping for a translator.

He made a show of chewing and pointed somewhere toward the sitting room. Finally he swallowed. “I think she’s lecturing George on the finer methods of parenting,” he said at last.

“Ah, missing having her own at home for Christmas?”

“I think she’s quite enjoying it actually. What about you, are you missing yours?”

She sighed, “I might not be as much, if it weren’t for all this mess. I just worry about them Harry, you know?”

Harry nodded, “yeah, but kids are resilient, remember what we were up to at their age? Just be glad there’s no Voldemort for them to chase. I swear the impulsiveness is genetic with mine. Remember when James was in his first year he tried to climb the Whomping Willow on a dare?  He was in the hospital wing for a week unconscious. When he woke up he couldn’t remember anything and when we told him he just said ‘wicked!’”

“Yeah, none of this is making me feel any better Harry,” Hermione reproached.

“Sorry, what I’m trying to say, badly, is that they’ll survive, and if there’s anyone who can get them through it, it’s us.”

“Okay, well, that does make me feel slightly better.”

“Good. How’s work?” Harry asked, changing the subject.

“Even worse, still working out the last details for the sodding New Year’s Ball, last minute, as always.”

“Speaking of,” Harry asked, swilling his mulled mead in his mug, “are you taking Krum to the Ball?”

“I was thinking about it,” Hermione answered honestly, “you think that I shouldn’t?”

“I don’t think anything. Except maybe that you need to talk to Ron. You know he’s still pretty cut up about the whole thing. But don’t tell him I said that, he’d probably kill me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, but true affection, “you two never change.”

Harry grimaced and nodded again, “true, but you should still talk to him.”

“I know,” she sighed, “I didn’t plan any of this you know.”

“I know,” he answered, taking another drink, “I know Hermione.”

“That’s actually one of the reasons I came here tonight, I mean other than to see you lot.”

Harry chuckled appreciatively, “well, Ginny wouldn’t hear of you spending Christmas anywhere else, Molly either I’m sure.”

“Yes, I know I would miss it,” she said earnestly.

“Well then you better make peace while you can, I think he’s probably got about the perfect amount of firewhiskey in him right now,” Harry said raising an eyebrow.

“Good to know, any idea where he’s at?” She asked, looking around in the sea of red hair for Ron’s tall figure.

“Last I saw him he said something about ‘a breath of fresh air’ and was heading for the garden.”

“Thank you Harry,” Hermione said, patting him on the arm and winding her way through well-wishing family members towards the kitchen in the hope that she could still catch Ron alone.

Out in the garden, Hermione found Ron seated on a bench, kicking mindlessly at the snow with the toe of his boot, and watching one gnome chase another into a bush.

“May I join you?” She asked cautiously, and he nodded without looking up.

She took the seat next to him, trying not to cringe in response to feeling the cold metal bench through her robes.

They didn’t say anything for a too long moment, the only sounds were the muffled tones of Celestina Warbeck emanating from the direction of the house, and the crunching of snow beneath the tiny feet of the running gnomes. The stars were particularly bright in the indigo sky and there was a crisp bite to the night air, leaving each breath suspended in front of them.

“Why did you come?” Ron asked at last.

She decided to answer with the truth. “Because I needed to.”

“To torture me?”

She felt his words like a stab, “no, Ron.”

“Then why?”

“To try to make it right.”

“How?” He finally turned to look at her, his nose and cheeks bright red from the cold. “How can we make this right?”

“That’s a good question. I’m not entirely sure. I figured I’d start with apologising.”

He looked at her uncertainly, “for what?”

“For hurting you. In all the many ways I’ve hurt you over these many, many years.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “Mostly, I want to apologise for the recent incivility, and for blaming the end of our marriage on you.”

She waited to see how he would interpret these words. “You shouldn’t apologise for that,” he said quietly after a long moment.

“Why not?”

“Because it was all my fault. You were right. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since our fight, about the things you said. And you were right. I did take you for granted. I wasn’t a proper husband, a proper father, a good partner for you. I called you selfish for wanting happiness, but I was the selfish one. While we were married, and after when I expected you to honour our vows after we had ended them.” He wiped at his eyes, and in the vulnerability of the moment she saw teenage Ron in front of her.

She felt somehow warmed and saddened by his admissions. Warmed by his validation of her experiences and pain, saddened by his acceptance of sole blame. “It wasn’t just you Ron, I stopped communicating too. After the… after we lost the baby. I let the distance grow between us. I became resentful, and bitter, and withdrawn. I rejected your efforts to reconnect. I invested more in my career than our relationship. And I acted without consideration for your feelings during our divorce and ever since.”

“You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything.” He kicked at the snow again, “bloody hell, I did love you so much though. Still do.” He said quietly, not looking up at her.

She felt the pain of his words more acutely. “The love was always real Ron, it’s still real, just different now. You are my family, and the best friend I’ve ever had. I came here to beg your forgiveness because I can’t bear to lose our friendship. It is one of the realest and truest things there has always been in my life, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you altogether and living without it.”

“You couldn’t lose me, unless you really wanted to. Maybe not even then. I do want you to be happy you know, it’s just hard to watch.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Do you love him?” He looked up into her eyes.

She blew out a breath, “I think it’s too early for that word. I don’t know what I feel exactly, except that when I’m with him I feel somehow alive and at peace at the same time. I don’t know what that means, or what it will become, if anything. Just that for right now I am content.”

“And that’s more than you could say for our marriage?”

“I was content for a time. I am forever grateful for the ways that we took care of each other and the beautiful children we have raised together. But I don't think we were meant to grow old together as husband and wife. My sincere hope is that we can watch each other grow old as friends. That we can be happy for each other when we find joy and love in other places.”

“I could never love someone like I’ve loved you.”

“Maybe you don’t need to. I don’t expect to replicate our love with someone else. But, there are many ways to love.” She remembered her solicitor’s words with a sense of irony and chagrin at her earlier dismissal of them.

“You’re probably right Hermione, you always are.” He said it with warmth.

“Can we be friends again? Or if not friends just yet, at least not strangers?” She entreated.

He sighed deeply, “yeah alright. But I’m not listening to your stories about your boyfriend.”

She laughed aloud, “can I hug you?”

He looked into her eyes, sad and vulnerable, “of course.”

She threw her arms around him, his cloak thick under her fingertips, his hair smelling unmistakably of Ron. His arms felt familiar and comforting around her, and she sighed deeply with relief and real happiness at their reconciliation. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, breathing in the sharp winter air and reveling in the warmth of their love for one another.

“Oi!” Ginny’s voice came from the porch. “I hope I’m not interrupting something here, but your son’s head is in the fire.”

“Oh thank Merlin!” Hermione exclaimed, and she and Ron both jumped up from the frosty bench and made their way for the door.

Just inside the kitchen was Hugo’s head in the Burrow’s hearth. “Mum, Dad, you’re both here!” Hugo called out when he saw them.

“Of course mate, where else would we be?” Ron said easily, and Hermione felt grateful for him.

“I… I don’t know,” Hugo looked unsure. “I just wanted to say Happy Christmas to everyone.”

“Happy Christmas Hugo,” Hermione smiled, “we miss you.” She was holding her breath waiting to see his response to her affection.

“I really miss you both too,” he looked behind him as if checking to make sure no one was around, “I kind of wish I had come home for Christmas.”

Hermione tried to suppress her gleeful smile.

“There’s always Easter, mate,” Ron answered reassuringly.

“Thank you for the gifts, I’ve already beat Albus in wizard’s chess and tricked James with the wand, you should’ve seen it Dad, he was so mad when he was suddenly holding a rubber chicken!” Hugo laughed infectiously, and Hermione could have cried with relief at the sound of it.

“Have you seen your sister at all today?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Yeah, she ate with us at the Gryffindor table during the feast. And Professor McGonagall was wearing a dunce hat that she got out of a Christmas cracker, I don’t think she liked it very much but everyone else was howling. And the pudding! I can’t believe I ate that much!”

Ron laughed, “Don’t let your Nana hear you talking about anyone else’s pudding!”

“Oh, and thank Nana for my jumper! Gryffindor colors! I love it!”

“Yeah, try wearing maroon with red hair,” Ron grumbled.

“We’ll let Nana know,” Hermione promised.

“Let me know what?” Came Molly’s voice as she burst into the kitchen using her wand to suspend several empty trays in front of her.

“How much Hugo loves his new jumper,” Hermione answered, helping Molly lower the trays into the basin where they started to wash themselves.

“Hi Nana! Happy Christmas!” Hugo called, waving enthusiastically from the fireplace.

“Oh Happy Christmas love! So glad you liked your jumper, should keep you warm in those drafty towers! Are they feeding you enough? Should I send more cakes by owl?”

“Oh Nana I’m stuffed!” Hugo said.

“I’ll take some cakes!” Came James’ voice as he butted into the fireplace.

“James! I’m using the fireplace,” bickered Hugo.

“Now no fighting boys, I’ll send enough cakes for everyone!” Molly promised.

“Yes!” James responded, “You’re the best Nana!” And he dipped back out of the flames.

“What?” Hugo’s head was turned away from them talking to someone in the Common Room behind him, “yeah, alright let me say bye!” Then he turned back to the Burrow, “gotta go, Lily wants me to play Gobstones with her, Happy Christmas again, love you Mum and Dad!”

“See you at Easter mate!” Ron promised.

“Bye! Love you!” Hermione called as the last trace of Hugo left the hearth and the flames returned to normal. She turned away from the fireplace to return to the party at the Burrow, her heart feeling lighter and more joyful than it had in ages.


	16. The Beginning

_Minister for Magic Says the Seeker is a Keeper for the New Year_

_The Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger, opened the annual New Year’s Eve Ball Tuesday night at the Ministry for Magic in a glittering golden gown and one very notable accessory: Bulgarian quidditch legend Viktor Krum. Minister Granger and Krum have been rumoured to be romantically connected since early November, not long after the Minister’s controversial divorce._

_This is the first open public appearance of the couple, who have spent the last two months refusing to speak on the photographic evidence and sources linking them together. The appearance has led to speculation that the Granger-Krum relationship is getting serious. Speculation that will only be fueled by the fact that Krum attended affectionately to the Minister all evening, and shared a very public, and very passionate kiss with her at midnight._

_But is all as perfect as it seems? Could the Quidditch World Cup winner be the victim of a powerful love potion? Or perhaps that dazzling golden dress is infused with Felix Felicis? Either way, it was clear the Minister was getting lucky last night._

_If there’s any truth to the old adage ‘whatever you’re doing at midnight you’ll be doing for the rest of the year,’ then one thing is for certain: in 2020 we’ll all be watching Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum._

 

Hermione cast aside the Prophet with a smirk on her face and took a gratified sip of her tea. She glanced down at the image of Viktor kissing her passionately, the exploding of fireworks faded and reappeared around them. Her golden dress, abandoned now somewhere between the front door and Viktor’s bedroom, shined even in black and white newsprint.

“Vot do you think?” Viktor asked as he placed her plate, heaped with the breakfast foods he’d prepared, in front of her.

“It’s perfect,” Hermione said, kissing Viktor and picking up her fork.


End file.
